


Warden

by Khintress



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, F/M, contains all origins in some capacity, pretty much the entirety of origins because i have no chill, what-if fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2018-12-24 19:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 74,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12019854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khintress/pseuds/Khintress
Summary: "Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting. You have brought sin into Heaven, and doom upon all the world."Lenora Cousland wants to avenge her family. Ariah Mahariel is trying to survive long enough to return to hers. Darian Amell is just pleased to be out of the Circle. He saw a bear yesterday - it tried to eat him, but it was still pretty cool.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my self-indulgent 'what-if'! We've got angst, we've got comedy, we've got circle mages learning how to function in regular society! This fic will encompass all of Dragon Age: Origins as if each potential warden survived their origin story; Cousland, Mahariel, Amell and Surana are heavily featured, with guest appearances by Brosca, Aeducan and Tabris at some point or another. Join me in the majesty of this game, because it's been eight years and it still controls my life. Lenora Cousland was my first ever Warden, and she's still very near and dear to my heart. Stupid Bioware and their stupid games making me feel stupid things. 
> 
> (i'm kidding i love you bioware please give me DA4)
> 
> Thanks for dropping in, and enjoy!

>   _all men are the work of our Maker's hands,_
> 
> _from the lowest slaves_
> 
> _to the highest kings._
> 
> _those who bring harm_
> 
> _without provocation to the least of his children_
> 
> _and hated and accursed by the maker_
> 
> _- **transfigurations 1:3**_

* * *

 

                 She watches him, the fire casting shadows over his rigid face as the flames dance between them. Her hands work at the cloth, methodical and repetitive, covering the evidence of Howe’s betrayal as though hiding the burns may hide his treachery.

                _Howe thinks he will use the chaos to advance himself. Make him wrong, pup._

“I can help, if you wish.” Her companion speaks softly, knowing her answer, but offering nonetheless.

                “I need no more of your help.” She pulls tight, too tight, and the burns tug and stretch as she ties the knot off at her hip. She indulges in the pain of it for a moment – it means she’s still here, despite her conflicting desires. She doesn’t seek death – she’s not so foolish as to waste a life – but this? Running? This isn’t what she wants, it isn’t what her father taught her. There is no honour in allowing others to die in her stead.

                Duncan nods his understanding, retuning his gaze to the forest surrounding them as the wind whistles through their small camp. His eyes are too sharp, she knows; they’re the same as her mother’s. Like they’ve seen too much, like they _see_ too much. She wonders how much of what Duncan sees is actually there.

                _She will live, and make her mark on the world_.

                And what mark, she thinks, could she make that wouldn’t look exactly as she does? Marred and twisted, raw and slick with blood, shed all too willingly in the name of survival. What mark of hers wouldn’t reek of smoke and burning flesh? It’s not a mark worth leaving.

                _We had a good life, and did all we could. It’s up to our children now._

                She thinks of Fergus, and can’t help the tears that well in her eyes. What will he think of her, knowing that she ran from the bodies of their parents, of his wife and child? How is she to tell him of this – of the horrors burned into her memory as surely as her flesh? She sees Oren’s red-stained sheets, Oriana’s broken body and her parent’s last embrace. She sees a massacre, an extinction, an end. How can she tell him that she’d let Howe take everything they had and had done _nothing_?

                _Goodbye, darling._

* * *

 

>   _blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow._
> 
> _in their blood the Maker's will is written._
> 
> _- **Benedictions 4:11**_


	2. Chapter I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenora hates the undead. Ariah hates a mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Ariah! The salty Dalish elf with a soft spot for dogs. Happy reading!

> _violently were they cast down,_
> 
> _for no mortal may walk bodily_
> 
> _in the realm of dreams,_
> 
> _bearing the mark of their crime:_
> 
> _bodies so maimed_
> 
> _and distorted that none should see them_
> 
> _and know them for men._
> 
> **_\- threnodies 8:7_ **

* * *

Lenora curses as her foot catches an uplifted root, nearly sending her face first into the dirt. The road to Ostagar is already a long one – made even longer by their detour through the woods – and she doesn’t relish the thought of walking it on a broken ankle. She rotates her foot once she’s regained her balance, confident it’s uninjured as she tests her weight on it. 

                “I thought we were heading for the King’s army.” She huffs, eyeing the trees with suspicion as she makes a conscious effort to keep her footing. “I may not be a scholar,” She continues, ignoring Duncan’s lack of attention. “But I know that Ostagar lies to the south, not –” She gestures vaguely around her, overwhelmed by the sheer density of foliage. _“– here_.”

                Her unwanted companion releases a quiet chuckle, much to Lenora’s surprise. It’s a foreign sound from his lips, and she’s unsure what to make of it. She hadn’t exactly been going for humorous, or anything, really, beyond disgruntled cynicism. They haven’t shared many words since leaving Highever, largely thanks to her apparent refusal to make any part of this journey amicable. The few words she’d offered had been unkind, much to her mother’s disappointment, but her attitude has done little to disturb the Grey Warden. A part of her is only further agitated by his indifference, but another part wonders how many unwilling recruits he’s taken in his tenure as Commander of the Grey. She knows enough about the Wardens to be wary of them, but from what she remembers, their numbers in Ferelden are few. She wonders if he has any real faith in her abilities, or if he can simply no longer afford to be meticulous about his choices.

                Fang, at least, is in high spirits as he bounds along beside them. Even in Highever, he’s never experienced anything quite like these trees that seem to reach into the sky. She’s thankful to have him, a sorely needed comfort in the midst of everything that has happened.

                “You are skilled, my Lady, I have no doubt of –”

                “I have a name.” She bites out bitterly, ducking under a branch as what semblance of a path they’ve been following begins to fade. She hopes he knows where he’s going, because she’s no ranger. She’s trained for battlefields, not forests.

                “ _But,_ ” Duncan looks back pointedly. “With a Blight looming, we need as many recruits as we can get. The Grey Wardens have agreements with the Dalish. If we can find them, I’m confident we’ll find help.”

                “What kinds of agreements?”

                “Ancient ones.”

                “Oh, that’s not vague in the least.” Lenora sighs in defeat as the conversation dwindles again, their trail indistinguishable amongst the vegetation. Suddenly Duncan veers sharply to the left, and the younger woman finds herself tripping to keep up. There’s no path now, nothing to suggest where they’re going, and she’s uneased to find that the tranquil expression that had so irked her just moments ago is now tense with apprehension. The lines on his face have deepened, aging him beyond his years. She recognizes that look, knows it all too well. She grasps the pommel of her sword, the Cousland crest sitting firmly in her hand, and hopes she’s wrong. If she’s not, they’re heading for trouble. If she’s right, his is the look of a man expecting a fight.

                A few moments later, and she understands what’s twisted his features so. The mouth of the cave is too large and looming to be anything but bad news, and the foul odour wafting from inside leaves Lenora sick to her stomach. The ancient stone lay in ruins, its haunting air prickling her flesh as she ponders on the place’s emptiness. The smell of death suggests the less desirable option, and she hears her heart drumming in her ears. The dead unease her; the decay is worse. She and Fergus had stumbled upon a rotting wolf once as children, inspiring a week’s worth of nightmares that only worsened with her brother’s taunting tales of the undead.

                She watches as Duncan inspects the entrance, slow and calculating in a way that only sets Lenora’s teeth on edge. Even Fang sniffs timidly, nosing his way through the brush as though it might bite him. Then, in an unpleasant turn of events, his ears pique and he makes off into the trees.

                “Wha – _Fang_!” Lenora sputters, casting a fleeting glance at Duncan before chasing after her hound. His lack of response to her calls surprises her in the worst way; he doesn’t run off. Andraste’s ass, he barely leaves her side unless there’s pork involved. “Fang, I swear, if you’re chasing a rabbit, I’m going to –!” She startles as a branch catches her cheek, under her right eye. “Son of a – !” She swats the offending limb angrily, and stomps after Fang.

                The leaves threaten to block out the sun now, and the shade creates an eerie darkness that turns the otherwise beautiful forest into something out of a nightmare. She becomes keenly aware of the silence, hoping against hope that all of the birds are just sleeping. In the middle of the day. She can barely see her furry lump of a dog through the trees, and she wishes she’d simply stayed put. She wasn’t made for the woods; they’re too dense, too congested. By the Maker, it took her seven years to learn how to navigate her own home. Fang’s smart, she knows, he would have found his way back to her had she stayed put.

                She should have just stayed put.

                Something rustles in a bush to her left as she closes in on Fang, triggering a few obscene words that Nan would have smacked her for. She forces herself to breathe, to try and relax, but her heart is still pounding in her ears. Fang has stopped moving at least, restlessly circling the same spot as though he’s lost the trail of whatever lured him out here in the first place.

                “What the hell compelled you to – _oh._ ” She doesn’t see the body until she’s practically hovering over it, a mess of hair caked with mud and hidden in the undergrowth. “Maker’s breathe.”

                She kneels down, pulling on a shoulder and rolling the body onto its back to reveal an elven woman, no older than she. She quickly lowers herself over her face, nearly choking in relief when she feels a shallow breath hit her cheek. The relief, then, is quickly replaced by overwhelming panic. The woman’s skin is sickly pale, cold to the touch despite the sweat glistening at her hairline. Lenora hesitates, unsure if moving her is the wisest course of action. When the small breaths turn into quiet rasps for air, she decides it’s the _only_ course.

                “Come on,” She says, mostly to herself as she gingerly slides her arms under the elf’s body. Her voice, however low, stirs whatever life the woman has left, startling Lenora as she’s met with a faded pair of amber eyes. Disjointed mutterings ghost past her lips, incoherent words that fill the silence as her thin hands reach out in urgency. They find Lenora’s arm as she heaves the woman from the ground, unsurprised to find that the dying elf weighs less than the lumbering hound who found her.

                She’s thankful then, for Fang’s misconceptions of his own size – she carried him around as a pup; neither of them grew out of it. She remembers him nearly breaking Nathaniel Howe’s back thinking that all humans would carry him as she did. 

                The elven woman’s fingers press softly into her skin, bringing Lenora back to the present as she holds the stranger to her chest. She beckons for Fang to lead them back with a sharp whistle and some colourful words. The woman is a mystery, what happened to her even more so – but whatever it is, something has to be done. And it has to be done quickly.

* * *

                The taint is pungent.

                Even as Duncan paces restlessly outside the cave’s entrance, he can feel the corruption – the dark, blistering air that swirls within, seeping into everything beyond. He needs to investigate, he knows, but with his recruit sulking about in the woods, he’s less inclined to do so by himself. She doesn’t want to be here, that much is obvious. Painfully so. But he needs recruits, he needs help. He cannot defeat the Blight with their current numbers.

                And this? This coils his insides with anxiety, setting him on edge. It’s not just darkspawn, he can deal with darkspawn, this – this is something more, something…worse. This is something that needs to be dealt with, but he can’t _do_ that without –

                The bushes behind him rustle, the snapping of twigs pulling his attention from the feeling of dread swirling in his gut. Fang’s heavy panting confirms his suspicions, and he considers berating the young Cousland for wandering off so eagerly. These woods are no haven; there are more dangers here than he cares to contemplate. Then he remembers her animosity, and thinks better of provoking her. The girl is as stubborn as her father, and twice as hot-headed. He settles, instead, for a resigned sigh as he sets his sights back on the cave.

                “Now,” He begins, eyeing the darkness warily. “If you’re quite finished chasing your hound through the forest, we have business to attend to.”

                “Duncan.” Her breathless voice is cracked, laced with urgency and fear, and it’s enough for him to finally turn to meet her gaze. Her eyes wide and her hair wild, her limbs shake as she clutches a body to her chest in desperation. An elven woman, it seems, drenched in sweat and motionless in Lenora’s arms. The cave beckons behind him, the darkness stirring in his blood as he beckons for the noblewoman to follow him. He knows what this is, and his heart hurts for what will come next.

* * *

                When Ariah Mahariel wakes in the Keeper’s aravel, her confusion is substantial, to say the least. The ruins linger in her memory, the monsters that dwelled within stirring her from her slumber with rancid teeth and rotting flesh. Horrid, twisted things that have no business existing, let alone walking about. Then she remembers the mirror, dread rolling off of it in waves upon its discovery.

                Then she remembers Tamlen.

                The exhaustion is overtaken by panic as she throws herself from the furs, scrambling to leave the aravel despite her body’s protests. Even the afternoon sun filtering through the trees is enough to burn her eyes, her brain pounding against her skull as she raises a hand to block out the light. Her whole body aches with the exertion of it, and her mind reels with the uncertainty of what’s happened to her.

                “Lethallan!” Fenarel’s joyful voice pulls her from her musings. “I’m glad to see you’re awake.” His smile is reminiscent of the sun she’s still shielding herself from, bright and loud. “Do you remember anything?” He’s watching her as though she may collapse at any moment, but his smile never falters.

                “I…yes,” She answers, trying to pull the memories from her addled mind. “But…how did I get back?” Had Marethari sent scouts after them? Had they found Tamlen?

                “A pair of shems found you in the forest.” Fenarel says conspiratorially, glancing around them. “They brought you back here. One of them was even claiming to be a Grey Warden.”

                “Shems?” Ariah snorts in a thinly veiled attempt to cover her unease. She can’t wrap her head around the idea of those humans helping an elf, all things considered. “We found some shemlen by the border,” She continues. “But we chased them off.”

                “These weren’t hunters, or looters.” He shakes his head, his smile dwindling. “They knew exactly where the camp was – just waltzed in, no hesitation. The woman carried you in her arms; you were sick as sin! The Keeper used her magic to keep you alive, but Ari…well, we weren’t sure you were going to wake.”

                “Was it that bad?” She inquires, concerned. She doesn’t feel _well_ , certainly, but for the clan to fear for her life?

                “You’ve been unconscious for two days, lethallan.”

                Two days. Two days? That can’t be right, it can’t be –

                “Where is the Keeper?” She demands, anger rising in her chest. She wishes Tamlen had never touched that fucking mirror. He couldn’t just do as she said, could he? Couldn’t leave the damn thing alone? No, of course not, not Tamlen – what fun would that be? Why be safe and cautious and _smart_ when being _stupid_ leaves you dazed and confused and dying in the middle of the woods. Doesn’t _that_ sound like an adventure?

                “She’s by the halla pen.” Fenarel answers softly, watching the turmoil bubble under her skin.

                “Ma serannas.” She huffs. “I will speak with you again later, lethallin.” She claps him on the shoulder as she passes, barely registering his “Ma nuvenin,” as she trudges off to the other side of camp. Something happened inside that cave. That mirror did _something_ , and if the Keeper had resorted to magic to keep her alive, then Tamlen needs to be found as soon as possible.

                She’s going to find answers, whether Marethari has them or not.

* * *

                “What the _hell_ were those things?” Lenora gasps, wishing she could take her sword and scrape out any memory of the last hour. “Giant spiders and the…the undead? What’s wrong with this place?”

                “The taint.” Duncan answers simply, inspecting the large mirror sitting in the centre of the cavernous room. Nothing foreboding about that at all, surely. Just a giant mirror she’d just waded through hell to find, covered in dirt and dust and probably spider guts. Because of course there are spiders here – giant, man-eating spiders. She isn’t nearly frightened enough by lowly _animated corpses_. “It affects everything,” Duncan continues. “Even the dead.”

                “Well it’s horrific.” She grunts, cringing as she remembers the hollow moans and rattling of bones as her sword dismembered them. She’s going to forget the giant spiders. She’s going to purge the very _idea_ of them. Small ones are bad enough – these ones almost ate her. Maker’s breath, they were bigger than Fang! Fergus used to tease her for disliking them. She dares anyone to tell her it’s an irrational fear _now_.

                Fangs lingers by the entrance, growling at the bones still littering the hall as Lenora follows Duncan to the mirror. The thing is ancient, judging by the look of it, but otherwise unremarkable. It’s broken and smudged, not even showing a clear reflection as she watches the dust float over it. She’s about to express just how underwhelming it is when the sounds of battle ring through the cavern. Either the monsters have begun fighting amongst themselves – which is troubling in and of itself – or…

                “Do you hear that?” She asks, looking back to the door that Fang is still staring down with ripe conviction. “Something else is here.”

                “Scouts, perhaps.” Duncan nods, keeping his eyes on the mirror and seemingly unbothered by the growing noise. The glass rings with the taint, the source of the darkness he’d felt at the mouth of the cave. Now that he can see it, he’s comfortable confirming it as the source of the clan’s recent misfortune. “Do you know what this is?” He inquires, glancing at the fledgling warrior as she stalks up the stairs to join him.

                “It’s a mirror, Duncan.” She states, unimpressed as she watches Fang paw at the door. “I have eyes.”

                “It’s a communication device out of ancient Tevinter.” He retorts, ignoring her skeptical huff. “And quite a broken one, at that.”

                “Communication device.” She groans, as if it’s the chunky icing on top of a terrible cake. “So what do we do?”

                Fang lets out a sharp bark, interrupting Duncan’s answer as the wooden door swings open with a ferocity Lenora is quickly becoming accustomed to. Three elves stride in, looking none too pleased, and Lenora sends a quick ‘thanks’ to the Maker because _at least they’re not dead_. She recognizes one as the woman they’d brought back to camp, and she finds herself pleased, despite the arrow aimed at her head. She looks better than she had, her darker skin having regained some colour after what she assumes is two days of solid sleep.

                “Ah,” Duncan sighs, finally turning from the mirror as the two parties eye each other warily. Fang stalks between them, ready to intercede should anyone approach his mistress. Lenora must trust the hound, he realizes, because the noblewoman hasn’t bothered to draw her sword. “I am Duncan, a Grey Warden. This is Lenora.”

                The elf barely acknowledges his words, simply staring – with no lack of suspicion – at the two humans in front of her. She must not find anything terribly offensive, because she lowers her bow before signalling for her companions to stand down as well.

                “Ariah,” She says quickly, offering Fang a curious glance before addressing the pair again. “What are you doing here?”

                “I came to find what made you so ill.” Duncan answers, gesturing back to the mirror. The elves behind Ariah shift uneasily, acutely aware of every movement.

                “Tamlen touched it.” Ariah practically spits. “Is he sick too?”

                “Yes, very.”

                “Have you seen him?”

                “I’m afraid we haven’t.”

                “What is it, then?”

                “A communication device.” Duncan says, matching every question with an answer before Lenora can think of a response. “It is tainted, and it will taint everything in the area if it is not destroyed.”

                Ariah’s face falls, her eyes piercing the slab of glass with such venom and fear that Lenora’s heart clenches with the familiarity of it. She wonders if that’s what she looked like; frightened and enraged and so utterly hopeless all at the same time.

                “So it’s true, then…?” Her voice trembles, hesitantly filling the empty space between them. “I had the darkspawn plague?”

                Lenora knows the next words long before she hears them leave Duncan’s lips, and she knows with absolute certainty that they will haunt Ariah for the rest of her life. However long that life will be.

                “You still do.

* * *

                “Tamlen is out there still. I have to find him.” Ariah states again, for the umpteenth time as she and the recruit sit in the Dalish camp.

                “You heard Duncan.” The woman responds, absently playing with her dog’s ears as he rests his head on her knees. “Your friend has been tainted for three days with no help. Your scouts haven’t found any sign of him. There’s no use in wasting time searching for a body you won’t find.” Her words are insincere, but they boil Ariah’s blood nonetheless.

                “The taint will kill me too, won’t it? So what does it matter? It’s my time; I’ll waste it if I want.”

                Lenora releases a breathy laugh, closer to a simple puff of air as she shakes her head.

                “Have you ever lost someone?” The elf snaps sharply, the woman refusing to meet her eyes only aggravating her more. “Do you know how that feeling takes you over – how you’d give anything just to _know_? What if he’s not dead? What if he’s in pain and everyone has just _given up on him_?”

                The human shifts her weight on the log and levels Ariah with a gaze so tumultuous she has to draw on her stubborn will not to look away. She’s struck a nerve, she knows, because she recognizes the anguish pulling at the corners of the woman’s lips.

                “I’m not arguing with you.” She says finally, and Fang whines quietly, nudging his nose against her fingers. That, Ariah reasons, is the end of any willing conversation on Lenora’s part. Not that it matters much; the humans will be on their way soon enough. Then, as if summoned by the thought, the Grey Warden steps out of the Keeper’s aravel. Lenora stands, greeting the older man with a nod and leaving Ariah alone on the log.

                “I’ll wait for you by the treeline.” She informs him, Fang following her without needing to be called. “I’m ready to leave when you are.”

                “Good,” He nods back, before turning his attention to Ariah. “We have much to discuss.”

                His words register in Ariah’s brain, but she’s watching the woman pay respects to the Keeper before making for the edge of their clearing. In hindsight, Ariah thinks, she probably should have thanked the woman, however begrudgingly. Fenarel said she’d carried Ariah home, after all. Marethari will have a few things to say about that, she’s sure.

                “So,” She says, standing from the log and dismissing her poor manners for the moment. “What’s to be done?”

                “You are to go with Duncan.” The Keeper says, her eyes soft as Ariah considers sitting back down and starting the conversation over. “They are in need of Grey Wardens, and what _you_ need, the clan cannot give.”

                “I’m not leaving.” She says, almost laughing at the incredulity of it. “You said there was no cure.”

                “Becoming a Grey Warden _is_ the cure.” Duncan insists, as if that explains anything at all. Ariah tries to temper herself, throttled by the momentum her misfortune is gaining. This, by all accounts, is too surreal to be true. Two days is all it takes for her life to crumble around her? The empathy in Duncan’s eyes as he continues is enough to make her sick to her stomach. “The taint cannot be removed, but we can control it.”

                “You will live.” Marethari interjects with quiet hope. “Instead of suffering a long, painful death here.”

                “So you would condemn Tamlen to a ‘long, painful death’? You said he was beyond saving; why him and not me?” Ariah demands, her anger rising despite her feeble attempts to leash it. This man, this _shemlen_ stands here and dictates the rest of her life as if it is his right to do so. As if he gets to decide who lives and who dies.

                “Da’len, please.” Marethari hushes, her voice soothing even in her desperation. “Tamlen was beyond help the moment he touched the mirror. Try to understand.” She reaches for Ariah arms, holding her steady as a hurricane rages between them. “A new Blight threatens the land; this is not a storm we can outrun.”

                “So it’s my duty to stop the Blight?” The young woman spits, venomous in the face of exile. She didn’t ask for this – she doesn’t want _this_. Why should she fight to save the human lands when they’ve stripped _everything_ from the Dalish?

                “It breaks my heart to send you away.” The Keeper’s hands move to her face, her thumbs brushing over Ariah’s cheeks to wipe away tears she doesn’t realize she’s shed. “Just as it would to see you suffer if you remained here. This way,” Ariah reached to hold on to her wrist, anchoring herself as the weight of what she’s saying pulls her down. “Oh da’len, this way there is more for you than death and pain.” She leans in to press a kiss to Ariah’s forehead, her lips light and comforting as Ariah shakes with the effort of breathing through the tears now falling freely from her golden eyes. “The Dalish have long had treaties with the Grey Wardens,” She whispers. “We must help them.”

                “But Keeper…” Her lips quivers with the word, and Ariah hates herself for her inability to keep her emotions in check.   

                “We are your family, da’len.” Marethari assures her, a sad smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she pulls Ariah into an embrace. “Becoming something greater will not change that.”

                “I don’t want to leave you.” Ariah whispers, clutching to the woman as if she could stay forever if she just holds on. She lets go of her vehement determination to remain strong in the face of her desperation, pleading now as her tears soak into the Keeper’s robes. “I don’t want to leave the clan.”

                “I know, child. I know.” She smooths Ariah’s sandy hair as she reassures her, breathing slowly and speaking soft words of reassurance. Duncan waits patiently, knowing the distress and discord the taint has wrought. He would not have offered the invitation if he didn’t believe Ariah was worthy or capable, but it takes its toll to have two unwilling recruits in his midst. Lenora hasn’t forgiven him, will likely never forgive him – and now Ariah? Such is his duty, he knows, as it is any other Grey Warden’s. Stop the Blight, at all costs.

                “Dareth shiral, Ariah. Ir abelas, ma vhenan.”

                But Maker, he’s tired of making others pay them.

* * *

                The rest of the journey to Ostagar is unsurprisingly quiet. Lenora speaks more freely since leaving the forest, but any attempt to involve Ariah only seems to send the elf further into her misery. When they finally reach the ruins of the stronghold, the lingering anger and resentment has seeped into everything from the air they breathe to the stone underfoot. Even Fang trades his eager trot for a subdued shamble, as tired and weary as the rest of them. Then the air grows colder, the fog thicker, and the sun hides itself away as if to avoid the battlefield stretched before them.

                The smell of rot and decay assaults Lenora’s nose as she overlooks the edge of Ferelden. The Korcari Wilds loom below them, sprawling so far into the distance she may as well be taking in the edge of the very world. And then she sees it, the smoke billowing out of the trees, covering the horizon like a monster consuming its prey.

                That is the reason Fergus marched with their men, leaving Highever defenseless. The reason she was dragged from her home, crumbling in the flames. The reason her heart is constricting beneath her ribs, choking the air from her lungs. That, she knows, is the reason she’s here.

 _ _That__ is the horde.

* * *

> _deep into the earth they fled,_
> 
> _away from the light._
> 
> _in darkness eternal they searched_
> 
> _for those who goaded them on,_
> 
> _until at last they found their prize,_
> 
> _their god, their betrayer:_
> 
> _the sleeping dragon dumat. their taint_
> 
> _twisted even the false-god, and the whisperer_
> 
> _awoke at last, in pain and horror, and led_
> 
> _them to wreak havoc upon all the nations of the world: the first blight_
> 
> **_\- threnodies 8:7_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Safe journey, Ariah. I am filled with sorrow for your loss, my heart."
> 
> And there's chapter one! Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenora makes a friend. Ariah makes a kennel full of friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we come to the Joining. But only after we've stolen all of our teammates' equipment so that we can sell if off after they die.

>   _and so we burned. we raised nations, we waged wars,_
> 
> _we dreamed up false gods, great demons_
> 
> _who could cross the veil into the waking world,_
> 
> _turned our devotion upon them, and forgot you._
> 
> **_\- threnodies 1:8_ **

* * *

                 Lenora bows as Cailan departs, making his way back across the bridge to the main camp. She grimaces as she recalls his words; Teyrn Loghain being the true strategic mind behind the entire operation is unsurprising, but concerning. The King is exuberantly inadequate, and their conversation has left a sour taste in her mouth.

                _I was hoping for a war like in the tales! But, this will have to do._

From what she’s heard, the upcoming battle is war enough. What kind of man, let alone King, desires _more_ chaos in the name of glory? Is ‘no war’ not better? Keeping his country intact, she thinks, should be more satisfying than being eaten by an archdemon. There’s no doubt in her mind that King Cailan would be the _first_ one eaten by a giant demon dragon – his bumbling excitement would make sure of that.

                It’s the same conclusion Ariah came to the moment the man opened his mouth. She’d been so unimpressed, in fact, that she hadn’t even loitered around to hear the conversation. She had wandered off almost immediately, likely ready to throw herself from the steepest cliff she can find. Lenora wonders briefly if she should follow the woman, just in case, then remembers that she’s more likely to toss the nearest soldier to his untimely demise than deprive them of her silent petulance.

                Duncan, for all his faith in the crown, must hold similar concerns. He launches into a brief explanation, enunciating the important parts as Lenora watches her fellow recruit scan the valley below. The words _hound, campfire_ and _ready_ float by her ears, and she puts them together absently as Ariah gets a little too close to the edge. Then a name follows – _Alistair_ , she thinks – but the rising smoke on the horizon catches her attention as she realizes what Ariah is looking at.

                _The battlefield_ , she surmises, wondering if the elf will throw _her_ from the cliff if she tries to join in her exploration of the ruin. They don’t get on very well, it’s true, but they haven’t truly spoken either – save for a few words about supper or firewood. They aren’t as different as Ariah wants to believe, but neither are willing to discuss whatever similarities they may share. Perhaps, she decides, it’s best to leave the elf to her solitude. Instead, Lenora turns back to Duncan, who only offers a sympathetic look before continuing down the King’s Highway into the heart of the stronghold. Fang kisses her affectionately, leaning into her leg before bounding after him.

                With a sigh, and one last glance at Ariah, she follows them.

                The bridge is old, to put it lightly. It’s missing large portions of stone, and men stroll to and fro, avoiding the empty areas as though they’ve been doing it their whole lives. It’s holding up admirably, she’ll concede, but Lenora can’t help the feeling of apprehension that claws at her gut as she skirts around the holes. She’s keenly aware of the distance to the ground below; one wrong step and she’s mush before the battle even starts.

                _What an elegant way to die_.

                But no, she can’t be mush. Not quite yet. Fergus is here somewhere, in this crumbling heap of stone, and she needs to find him. He needs to know what happened.

                She just doesn’t know how to tell him. 

* * *

                 There’s a saying, Alistair thinks absently, about shooting messengers. This man has never heard it, clearly, because if looks could kill, Alistair would be dead several times over. And then maybe once more. The mage is in a self-righteous huff, his beady eyes straining as if simply staring at him will make him disappear. He would if he could; Maker knows he’d rather be anywhere but here – well, maybe not _anywhere,_ but –

                “Here I thought we were getting along so well.” The Warden goads, knowing he’ll be getting a slap on the wrist for it later. “I was even going to name one of my children after you.” The mage snorts with distaste, rolling his eyes as Alistair crosses his arms. “The _grumpy_ one.”

                “Enough!” The older man snaps, dusting off his robes as though they aren’t already pristine. The man’s done nothing but primp and preen and bitch all day, when could he have _possibly_ gotten dirty? “I will speak to the woman if I must!” He spins on his heel then, and Alistair resists to urge and pluck his own eyes from his head so he never has to see the man again. “Out of my way, fool!”

                _Oh for –_ he’s nowhere _near_ the man, why is the belligerent bastard still –

                “Watch your tongue, _fool_ , before I cut it from your head _._ ”

                Ah, the belligerent bastard was grouching at someone else. And then someone grouched back. Rather pleasant turn of events, if he does say so himself. It doesn’t hurt that the someone in question seems to have effectively driven the mage off without another word, her hand resting loosely on the pommel of her sword as she turns back to Alistair.

                  It _really_ doesn’t hurt that her frown falters when she looks at him, just a little.

                “You know,” He begins, foregoing a formal introduction. “One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.” It’s a poor joke, he knows, but his mouth is notorious for working faster than his brain. She _does_ offer a small smile though, and he grins at the victory.

                “I know what you mean.” She agrees with a sigh, and his heart skips a beat.  

                “It’s like a party,” He continues, pushing his luck as she cocks an eyebrow at him, green eyes inquisitive. “We could all stand in a circle and hold hands. _That_ would give the darkspawn something to think about.” The surprised laugh that escapes her lips might just be the best thing he’s heard in months. It’s certainly not a common reaction to his runaway jests, and it wasn’t even intentional if the way she clamps her hand over her mouth is anything to go by.

                “That’s a first.” He chuckles, running a hand through his hair as she coughs and clears her throat. “I’m Alistair, by the way.” He extends his other hand, grinning as she tries to regain some composure. He sees something register in her eyes, and she doesn’t hesitate to respond.

                “Lenora,” She takes his hand, and he wishes desperately that they weren’t wearing gloves. “It’s a pleasure.”

                “Is it?” He smirks. “Oh, well – wait.” There goes her eyebrow again, reaching for her hairline as he pauses. He’s faintly aware of the fact that he hasn’t released her hand. But only faintly. “You’re Duncan’s new recruit, aren’t you?”

                “One of them.” She nods, sparing a glance down. He’s quick to pull away then, not wanting to overstep, however famous he is for it.

                “I’m sorry,” He offers, remembering some semblance of manners. “You didn’t exactly catch me at my finest with the mage there.”

                “You were finer than I would have been.” She huffs a laugh, and the words flutter giddily in his stomach. She called him fine. Maker, he’s an idiot.

                “Anyhow,” He coughs. “As the junior member of the Order, I’ll be accompanying you as you prepare for the Joining.”

                “I suppose you probably can’t tell me anything about that?” She muses.

                “You suppose correctly.” He nods. “So I’m curious, have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?”

                She stares behind him, looking lost in thought as he waits for an answer.

                “No?” She squints, unsure. “But I have fought walking corpses and giant spiders that will haunt my dreams for years to come. Duncan said they were tainted; does that count?”

                “Giant spiders,” He grimaces, sticking his tongue out. “I’d say so.” She smiles at the antic, and he wonders how that smile can make him forget where they are. He’s known this woman for all of three minutes and he’s already hopeless.

                Andraste’s ass, he really is done for.

* * *

                 Ariah likes the hounds, she decides. They don’t talk aimlessly, or yell at her for running late on an errand she was never given – _that_ particular man had gotten an interesting earful after assuming that _her_ ears meant she must have been making deliveries. But the Mabari? Oh, the Mabari don’t care one way or another what shape her ears are. They’re quite pleased to play among themselves, despite being war dogs.

                Out of the corner of her eye, Ariah sees Lenora descend a large ramp with a man in tow, chatting quietly amongst the bustle of the camp. The woman even manages a smile, much to Ariah’s surprise, as they approach the man who’s been loitering around the Quartermaster’s forge. Straining her ears, she can hear the man harass a female soldier into leaving, then he promptly turns around and introduces himself to Lenora as ‘Daveth’. His next words are jumbled and difficult to make out, but if the other man’s – the blond man’s – face is anything to go by, the words were less than polite.

                “Oh, look – a man in a cage.” She hears the blond say with false enthusiasm, clearly wanting to escape whatever conversation he’s currently privy to. “Let’s go pay him a visit, shall we?” Lenora looks almost grateful for the interruption as she bids farewell to Daveth and extracts herself from the awkward encounter.

                “Gorgeous, aren’t they?” The new voice startles her from her observations and pulls her back towards the hounds. The kennel master, she assumes, is watching the beasts with unbridled affection.

                “They seem quite playful for dogs that can tear people apart.” She notes, though she can’t deny that there is something elegant about them.

                “That’s in how you train them.” The man waves. “But a Mabari is a loyalist through and through, no matter their upbringing. Do you have much experience with them?”

                “Only one.” She answers, resisting the urge to glance back of Fang, undoubtedly still slumbering by the fire. She’s yet to see the beast fight, but she feels he’s really more of a lapdog than a war hound. She wonders if Fang was trained for war, as these dogs were, or if a comfortable life in the city brought him up soft and spoiled.

                She wonders the same of Lenora.

                The kennel master is decent company, she finds with some surprise. He’s enthusiastic about his hounds, but he reminds her of Maren, speaking endlessly of and _to_ the halla. She spends a good chunk of time conversing with the man, even going so far as to agree to something of an errand, even if he doesn’t call it such. In his defense, she thinks begrudgingly, she did _offer_. A couple flowers from the Wilds isn’t a hefty task, all things considered. He’s not a bad sort, and she doesn’t want the hound to suffer – not if she can do anything about it.

                That thought strikes her as odd, if only for a moment. It’s not as though the Mabari are like halla. Some will surely die on the battlefield tomorrow; it’s what they were bred and raised for – but this? This is cruel.

                This hound isn’t dying of the taint. And neither is she.

* * *

                 Alistair scratches the back of his neck absently as Lenora chats with the mage. No, no – _chat_ isn’t really the right word; it’s more an aimless rambling of questions with answers that only lead to more questions. They’d come over here to return the tranquil’s key, not to learn the entirety of the Circle’s history and practices. His attempt to pull Lenora away from the lecherous recruit eyeing her like a piece of meat had led them to a prisoner, and it had all spiraled from there.

                By the time he manages to pull her away from the _tranquil_ , it’s past time they return to Duncan.

                “You know,” He says, leading her back towards the campfire. “They would have found the key on him after he was executed. Someone would have returned it to the mages.”

                “Why deny a man his last supper?” She responds with the smallest quirk of her lip. “Give him that one comfort, at least.”

                “He’s a thief.” Alistair points out.

                “Ah, but that’s not why they’re hanging him, so _technically,_ he’s innocent.”

                “It doesn’t work that way!” He laughs, watching her incredulously. She simply shrugs, offering a smile in return as they near the other recruits. Fang is pacing impatiently, watching her with keen eyes as she slows. Alistair cocks an eyebrow in question as they stop their approach, and she’s quick with an answer.

                “Are we really going into the Wilds?” She asks, pursing her lips as she meets his eyes with an intensity that makes him want to squirm. He hesitates for a moment, reaching for the back of his neck again.

                “Duncan will explain everything.” He says finally, knowing it won’t appease her.

                “Alistair –” She pushes, but there’s a desperation in her voice that speaks to something other than fear. He can’t quite place it, but it sounds like she _wants_ to go.

                “Duncan will explain, I promise.”

                She huffs, but doesn’t insist any farther. She’s unsettled, eager or nervous or both – like she has too much happening in her head. He knows what that feels like. He’s sure Duncan hasn’t been of too much help in that department the last few weeks; the man isn’t exactly an open book. But he _will_ explain everything.

                He just doesn’t know if she’ll like the explanation.

* * *

                 Lenora listens with painstakingly dwindling patience as Ser Jory raves on about the dangers of their mission. He’s… _cautious_ , to put it politely. He hasn’t proven himself a hero – that much is certain. She can barely hear the soldier in front of her, and his words mean far more to her than Jory’s.

                “He wasn’t with you?” She asks again, to be sure. “You didn’t see him?”

                “Well,” The injured man adjusts his weight, leaning heavily on her shoulder as she helps him stand. “I don’t actually know what he looks like.” He clutches at his gut, where Alistair has bandaged the worst of his wounds. “But I know a Cousland was leading a different scouting party in another part of the Wilds.”

                “Do you know which part?” She’s desperate. Fergus is out here, somewhere, and this man is the only one left of his own party. Who’s to say what lurks further in the Wilds? Certainly something worse than wolves.

                “No,” The soldier confesses. “No, I’m sorry. There were six parties sent out in the last few days. Wherever they are, I hope they fared better than us.”

                “Alright,” She sighs, biting her lip in her anxiety. She needs to figure out her next move. She needs to find Fergus, but these people won’t help her, and she can’t very well try to brave the Wilds on her own. “Thank you. Do you need help getting back?”

                “I can make it.” He shakes his head, taking on his own weight as he tries to get his footing. “I appreciate the offer.”

                “Be safe.” She implores, but she knows he won’t be. She hisses a few choice words under her breath as he limps away, ready to return to the army. Ser Jory, meanwhile, offers little more than his concerns of conspiracies and barbarians. Ariah has long since wandered off again, scanning the bushes by the ruined caravan like she’s hunting for her next meal. The two male recruits argue amongst themselves and Alistair is watching them bicker as though he’s hoping they’ll simply tire themselves out.

                How Duncan could hope they’d be able to function as a team is beyond her.

                “I swear,” She mutters quietly to herself as she returns to the group, taking a place at Alistair’s side. “I’m the only competent one here.”

                “I know _I’m_ counting on you to protect me.” The blond man whispers back, flashing a cheeky grin as Lenora feels the blood rush to her face. She’s caught off guard for a moment, his honey eyes so mirthful despite their gruesome surrounding. A few seconds feel like eons, and her ears are on fire with the embarrassment of it by the time Jory pipes up again.

                “I’m just saying!” He spits indignantly, defending against Daveth’s accusations of cowardice. “This all seems too secretive for me. How many of these dangers do we have to face before we prove we’re ready?”

                “Are you serious?” All eyes turn to Ariah as she scoffs from the bushes. She doesn’t even bother to look up at them as she continues. “All you’ve proven is that you’re too fainthearted for a walk in the sodding woods. Stop wetting your pants for a moment and give your sword to someone qualified before you hurt yourself.”

                Lenora can’t help the snort of barely concealed laughter that escapes her throat as Jory gapes at the elf. She hasn’t seen shock and insult so potent since Oriana suggested Fergus was getting too old to chase Oren around the castle like a child.

                “These dangers are all a part of the test, Ser Knight.” Daveth insists, pulling her from the memory. “If we can’t face the Wilds, how can we face darkspawn?”

                “Speaking of,” Alistair clears his voice, and Lenora turns to him in time to see him briskly divert his attention elsewhere. “If we’re done yelling at each other, and…standing in the bushes…we have some darkspawn to kill.”

                Ariah gives the man a pointed look from her position in the brambles, but brushes him off with no small amount of scrutiny as she leans down to pick something from the underbrush. Then, seemingly content, she extracts herself from the flora and joins them on the worn path. Lenora watches with curiosity as she works over her bow before counting the arrows she’d salvaged from their scuffle with the wolves. She’s meticulous about her weapon, Lenora notes, and she can’t help but grasp the pommel at her hip. She traces the Cousland crest with her finger, her thoughts returning to Fergus before Alistair hushes the group.

                “There’s a group just ahead, get ready.” He says, and Lenora frowns.

                “How do you know?” She asks, trying and failing to see what he sees as she pulls the sword from its sheath.

                “It’s…” He hesitates, mulling over the right words. Maker’s breath, she just wants a straight answer! Everything about the Grey Wardens, beyond their talent for killing darkspawn, is a mystery – and she’s sick of it. “It’s why I’m here.” He finally answers. “We can… _sense_ them. Feel them.”

                “You can –?” Before she can finish the question, the grunts and groans of the distant monsters finally reach her ears. She pulls her shield from her back, and tries not to wonder just what they need the poisonous blood _for_.

                When they finally round the bend – when they finally set eyes on the beasts – every drop of blood drains from her face. They’re worse, somehow, than she imagined. They’re twisted, horrid things – like disfigured, demented men, long since dead. They howl and roar, deep, guttural, bone-tingling sounds that remind her of the undead in the Brecilian Forest. They rush forward, charging at them with gnarly blades, perverse and corrupted just as they are.

                They’re monsters, she knows. But the Chant claims they were once men, and Lenora hates the resemblance she sees. She spares a glance at Ariah before the battle starts – just a quick moment to take in the girl still sickened with the taint, preparing to meet her fate head on. Alistair had said they were nightmarish, but this?

                Is this what she would have become?

* * *

                 Their blood is black. For all of their monstrousness, she isn’t expecting _black blood_. She clamps her mouth shut as it spews from the darkspawn’s neck, coursing over her sword as she brings it across the thing’s throat. It crumples, letting loose a wet, gurgling howl as it goes. Its eyes, sharp and bulging, fade as it seems to stare through her, and she tries to repress the urge to vomit. She’s seen men die, at her own hands no less, and she won’t say this is worse – but it’s certainly sickening.

                She touches the fine slice on her cheek, courtesy of a rogue spike, and hisses at the sting of it as she glances at the bodies. There isn’t much blood on her fingers when she pulls them away, but she knows the dull ache will worsen in the morning.

                She turns to Alistair as he dispatches the last of the beasts, panting as he kicks it away. He gives the area a quick scan before pulling a cloth from his pack and wiping the blood from his sword. He spits up some blood of his own as he sheaths it, and Lenora feels something akin to panic rise in her chest.

                “You’re hurt.” She strides to him in a few quick steps, and he looks to her in confusion.

                “Kick in the gut.” He explains, a smile playing at his lips, though she’ll be damned if she knows _why_. “Nothing to worry about.” She frowns at that – it must have been a hard kick to have him spitting blood – but after a quick onceover, he seems otherwise unharmed. When she returns her eyes to his face however, she finds that his smile has disappeared. He reaches for her cheek, stopping himself short of contact before sputtering under his breath and pulling his hand back.

                “Just caught me by surprise.” She says, gingerly pressing at the wound again. “It’s fine.”

                “We’ll get it stitched up when we get back.” He assures, passing Lenora his cloth with a nod. She carefully wipes down her blade before sheathing it, moving to return the piece of fabric when Ariah’s voice startles her.

                “We got your damn blood.” She gripes, dropping from her perch on the other side of the clearing. She pulls an arrow from one of the corpses, and it leaves the darkspawn’s throat with a sickening pop. She stares at it, and then the creature with such disgust, Lenora almost laughs. “Now let’s find those treaties before I throw up.”

                “They should be close by.” Alistair says, taking the cloth back from Lenora as Ariah tries to shake the blood from her arrow. The elf responds with little more than a scoff and a roll of her eyes, but Daveth and Jory seem more than eager to press on. The faster they get there, Lenora figures, the faster they can leave.

                And by the Maker, is she ever ready to leave.

* * *

                 The Witch of the Wilds, as it turns out, is a raving lunatic. From moon dances to stockings, Ariah leaves her tiny hut in the middle of the Korcari Wilds with more questions than answers. The woman’s daughter, Morrigan, is silent as she begrudgingly leads them out of the swamp. They’re civil enough, she supposes, for swamp people. They’re not Chasind, certainly, but Ariah isn’t so sure that the woman she met is _actually_ Asha’Bellanar.

                Lenora and Alistair seem to be of the same mind, looking less than convinced as they finally see Ostagar’s gates in the distance. Daveth and Jory are…of a more compelled persuasion. Daveth, for all his talk of bravery and trials, is still chittering about frogs. Jory looks like he may pass out.

                “Here you are, then.” Morrigan speaks, halting their advance and waving them off with a flick of her wrist.

                “Thank you, Morrigan.” Lenora offers, but she’s met with little more than a nod as the witch heads back the way they’d come.

                “Enjoy your war.”

                Ariah pulls the flower from her pack as they approach the gates, bee-lining for the kennels as soon as they open. The man is surprised, then relieved, gratefully taking the flower as though it’s the most precious thing in the world. Perhaps, in that moment, it is. He’s quick to offer payment, a reward of some kind, but she brushes him off. She neither needs nor wants his coin, especially for such a triviality.

                She doesn’t have much time to talk with him before Duncan sends the recruits across camp. They mull about, hidden away on a secluded outcropping as Jory starts in again with his conspiracies.

                “The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it.” He worries, pacing the area like a nervous wreck. She’s not sure what qualities Duncan saw in the man to offer him a place here. The Wardens must be desperate if they’re taking on cowards.

                “Are you blubbering _again_?” Daveth says, rolling his eyes with no small amount of exasperation. The bickering only escalates as the men throw jabs, and Ariah finds a distraction in Lenora as she watches the valley beyond Ostagar. She admits, albeit reluctantly, that the woman handled herself well with the witches. She kept calm while the frightened men spewed accusations, and even managed to have something akin to a civil conversation, despite the circumstances.

                It’s a useful skill in the city, she’s sure. Not so much on the battlefield.

                She watches, ignoring the men as they continue to chitter at each other, as Lenora untwists her hair from its knot at the base of her skull. It’s longer than she expected, and it occurs to her that she hasn’t seen it down until now. Or perhaps she hadn’t cared enough to notice. It’s pretty, she’ll admit, as it cascades down her back in thick waves. The length, however, is beyond impractical. Keeping it tied up is all well and good, but Ariah knows better. She’d end up getting caught on something – or everything – and eventually strangling herself in a horrific twist of fate. No, she much prefers her short hair; easy to maintain and minimal risk of strangulation.

                “At last we come to the Joining.” Duncan’s voice seems to still the very air itself, and all eyes turn to meet him as he approaches them. “The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.”

                Not for the first time today, Ariah wants to vomit. This is her cure? Stop the taint in her blood by drinking more tainted blood? What kind of sick game in this man playing? Had there ever been a cure, or had he lied to steal another recruit for his war?

                “We’re – we’re going to drink the blood of those…those creatures?” Jory shakes his head wildly, and for once, Ariah is inclined to agree with the fragile man.

                “As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you.” Duncan nods, all too calm as Ariah fights the urge to scream. Lenora hasn’t moved from her spot on the outcropping, but her voice is laced with barely contained rage when she speaks.

                “You said the taint would kill her.” She practically spits, pointing to Ariah. “This is your cure? You would stop the poison with more poison? You would condemn her, all of us, so quickly?”

                “This is the source of our power.” He says easily. “And our victory.”

                “I don’t want your power.” She seethes, and Fang whines quietly at her side. Ariah considers taking back her notions of the woman’s cool head. “If you wanted me dead, you should have left me in Highever.”

                “Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint.” Alistair pipes in, and Lenora’s eyes snap to him with a sharpness Ariah might fear if turned on her. “We can sense it in the darkspawn, and use it to slay the archdemon.”

                “Those who survive.” The woman hisses back, and Ariah feels her bones tremble. She doesn’t like where this is heading. It doesn’t sound like help. It doesn’t sound like a cure. It sounds like a sentence.

                “Not all who drink will survive.” Duncan explains, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “And those who do are forever changed.” He looks pointedly at Ariah then, and she _really_ wants to scream. “This is why the Joining is a secret. This is the price we pay.”

                So the Joining can kill her. The taint _will_ kill her. In the end, it seems, she never truly had a choice in the matter. Lenora falls silent behind her, but she can practically feel the anger radiating off of the woman in waves.

                “We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first.”

                Words, it turns out, are of no comfort as Daveth dies in agony. A wretched screams tears from his throat and he claws at his eyes as they turn white. He crumbles, a mess of blood and bone, and Jory is quick to retreat.

                “I have a wife!” He pleads, back away from Duncan as he holds to goblet out. “A child! Had I known –!”

                “There is no turning back.” The older man says, dark and with a foreboding sense of finality that makes Ariah’s hair stand on end.

                “No!” Jory shrieks, pulling his blade as though it might protect him from the black death swirling in the goblet. “You ask too much! There is no glory in this!”      

                Ariah doesn’t know what glory looks like, but she doesn’t expect she’ll find it here. Not when Duncan’s knife slides into Jory’s gut, and not when his blood stains the stone beneath them. He didn’t hesitate, Ariah thinks with despair, to cut down the man pleading for his wife and child. How could she hope to be more fortunate than the men at her feet?

                “But the Joining is not yet complete.” Duncan speaks again, turning to Lenora where she boils on the edges of their company. “You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint, for the greater good.”

                She stalks towards him, stone-faced as Fang growls at her absence. Her eyes never leave Duncan’s, and she takes the goblet with a sneer before bringing it to her lips. She takes a strong drink – stronger than necessary, surely – seemingly out of spite. Ariah wonders if she’s _trying_ to deny him another recruit, or if she simply doesn’t care one way or another. Her lips are black when she pulls the chalice back, handing it to Duncan before stepping away. She looks to Ariah in time for the elf to watch her eyes cloud over to a ghostly white.

                She doesn’t scream. That makes it worse, somehow. She writhes, contorting in pain and curling in on herself, but she doesn’t scream. When she finally collapses, Fang runs to her with a fearful bark. He paws at her hip, nudging her head with his nose in an attempt to rouse her. When she remains motionless, he lies beside her with a mournful whine, his head upon her chest. Alistair tries to approach, presumably to check for life, but is met with the hound’s teeth and a warning snarl that makes Ariah’s chest ache.

                _A mabari is a loyalist, through and through._

That makes her want to cry more than anything.

                “She’ll live,” Alistair says suddenly, and Ariah nearly chokes. “She’s breathing, thank the Maker.”

                She’s alive. It doesn’t sound real, but sure enough, Ariah can see Fang’s head rise and fall ever so slightly with the expansion of her chest. She’s breathing, she did it. Then it’s Ariah’s turn. The goblet is heavy in her hands, but if Lenora can do it, Ariah decides, then so can she. She’s always been stubborn and prideful. Perhaps now the traits Tamlen teased her endlessly for will finally be of use.

                _Tamlen,_ she thinks. _I can’t find Tamlen if I’m dead._

She repeats the mantra, over and over, even as the blood swirls in her hands. She barely registers Duncan speaking as she tilts the goblet, and she notes with disgust that the concoction tastes familiar. She thinks of the mirror, remembers the darkness she felt – the fear, the pain. Then a noise, a roar, pierces her thoughts so pervasively it’s all she can do not to scream. It rings in her ears, rattles her bones and steals the air from her lungs with its intensity. It shakes, crumbling the world around her until her knees hit the stone.

                “From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden.”

                And then there is nothing.

* * *

> _those who had been cast down,_
> 
> _the demons who would be gods,_
> 
> _began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth._
> 
> _and the men of tevinter heard and raised altars_
> 
> _to the pretender-gods once more,_
> 
> _and in return were given, in hushed whispers,_
> 
> _the secrets of darkest magic_
> 
> **_\- threnodies 5:11_ **

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's chapter two! Hope you enjoyed - thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenora, Fang and Alistair fight an ogre. Ariah fights the impulse to punch an annoying mage.

> _those who bear false witness_
> 
> _and work to deceive others, know this:_
> 
> _there is but one truth._
> 
> _all things are known to our maker_
> 
> _and he shall judge their lies_
> 
> _- **transfigurations 1:4**_

* * *

 Her head throbs, screams still echoing in her skull when she finally wakes. She feels like she’s been trampled by halla; every bone in her body aches and her eyes burn as she forces them open. Her face is warm, uncomfortably so, and she realizes that she’s back by Duncan’s fire. Someone must have carried her back, but she stares at the embers as they float into the dark sky above her instead of thinking on it.

                “She’s awake.” Someone speaks, and Ariah turns her head just enough to see Lenora watching her a few feet away. Her fingers are threaded in her hair, twisting it into a braid that _still_ isn’t practical. Alistair sits beside her, a needle in his hand as he stitches the wound on her cheek. He stops, if only for a moment, to confirm her consciousness before returning to his work.

                “Don’t sit up just yet.” He tells her, like she has any intention of moving. “How do you feel?”

                “Bad.” She answers tritely, bringing a hand to her forehead. She closes her eyes and presses her fingertips into her eyelids, hoping to release the pressure building behind them.

                “Yeah, that sounds about right.” Lenora agrees with a huff. They’re alive, Ariah reminds herself. She’s alive, and that’s more than Daveth or Jory can claim.

                “Do you feel nauseous?” Alistair asks, not taking his eyes off of the sutures. “Woozy?”

                “No.” Ariah answers. “Just a headache.”

                “Did you dream?”

                The elf frowns, opening her eyes again to see Lenora has averted her attention, chewing her lip as Alistair finishes the stitches. She stares at the fire, lost in something far off and unwanted.

                “Nightmares.” Ariah confirms, and Lenora glances back to her with something resembling relief.

                “I had terrible dreams after my Joining.” Alistair offers, a small smile on his lips as Lenora raises a hand to touch her wound. “Don’t play with it.” He scolds, swatting her digits away, and she grumbles in discontent.

                “So it’s common, then.” Ariah sighs, looking back at the black expanse above her.

                “Unfortunately.” She doesn’t see him nod, but she can hear the guilt in his voice. They sit in silence for a long time, lulled by the flames and reluctant to exert the energy required to move. Ariah eventually finds the strength to sit up, but the resulting pounding in her head deters her from going any further. Alistair surprises her moments later, placing a pendent in her hand with a few words about those who hadn’t made it this far. Blood, darkspawn blood, swirls within it, and Ariah doesn’t think she _wants_ to remember.

                It isn’t long before Duncan returns, his expression grave and his words daunting. The lines on his face give away his age as he explains the battle plan, and all he’s left with at the end is a headache and three very unhappy junior Wardens.

                “I won’t be in the battle?” Alistair asks incredulously, looking as angry as Ariah feels.

                “This is by the King’s personal request, Alistair.” Duncan insists, clearly having tempered enough arguments today. “If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain’s men won’t know when to charge.”

                “So he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?” The younger man mocks bitterly, crossing his arms. Lenora looks no better, looking to all the world like a woman about to combust.

                “We should be in the battle.” She says carefully, ready to break. “After everything –”

                “That is not your choice. If King Cailan wishes –”

                “What is my choice, then?” She snaps, Fang’s ears swivelling to attention from his place by the fire. “You have overturned every decision I’ve made for myself. I didn’t let you drag me from my family so I can stand atop a bloody tower while everyone else fights.”

                Once again, Ariah finds herself wondering as to this woman’s background. Familiar fury burns in her eyes as Duncan speaks, and Ariah wants to know what about this man inspires her anger so.

                “I saved you to help stop the Blight.” Duncan presses, the growing hostility sharpening his tongue. “This is how we will do it.”

                “I didn’t _want_ to be saved.” Lenora seethes, and Ariah is grateful that her fellow recruit – Warden, now – carries a sword and not a stave. If she’d been a mage, the elf is certain Duncan would be engulfed in flames right about now. It would seem she isn’t the only one Duncan ‘saved’ against their will. She remembers their conversation in the Dalish camp, her harsh words and Lenora’s muted response.

                _I’m not arguing with you_ , she’d said.

                Perhaps there’s more to the woman than a shield and a hound.

* * *

                “My mother would have pulled my ear right off.”

                She’s talking mostly to herself, but Alistair can’t help the curious ‘huh?’ that he throws her way. It’s an odd thing to say in general, let alone with darkspawn corpses littering the ground at one’s feet.

                “If she heard me talking to someone, anyone, the way I spoke to Duncan,” Lenora sighs, shaking her head with a soft smile. “She would have scolded me into the next age.” He doesn’t know if she’s expecting him to answer, but she sounds sad and it sits wrong in his gut.

                “It sounded like you had your reasons.” He admonishes, and she looks to him in surprise as they step over the bodies to reach the tower. “I don’t like this any more than you do, trust me.”

                “I know.” She says. “I do.”

                “Don’t get me wrong though,” He’s hasty to continue, lest she notice how pink his ears are at the thought of her trusting him. “If the King ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

                She chuckles, and he relishes the sound.

                “I think I’d like to see that.” She teases, cocking an eyebrow at him as they climb the stairs.

                “For you, maybe.” He muses, opening the door and ushering her inside. “But it has to be a pretty dress.”

* * *

                Ariah isn’t surprised, all things considered, with the King’s lack of instruction for her. He’d failed to mention her in his briefing with the war council, so Duncan sees fit to place her with the rest of the ranged support. She’s fighting, at least. It’s a glum thought.

                The outcrop she perched on is packed with archers, bows ready as Chantry priests walk the line of foot soldiers below them. She’s never seen so many people in one place, everyone ready to rain death on the monsters that prepare to surge from the Wilds. She’s trying not to let nerves get to her, trying to stay in the right head space – but the damnable man behind her has been mumbling to himself since she got here and she’s about ready to toss him over the edge.

                “It’s so cold.” He grumbles. “And rainy. If I’d known it would just rain all the time…”

                “We’re in Ferelden.” Ariah bites out, turning her head just enough for the man to know she’s speaking to him. He’s tall, even for a human, and insufferably boyish looking. After twenty minutes of listening to him complain about the weather, she needs a moment of silence. Just a moment. Alas, he squeaks in surprise, fiddling with his staff – a mage, then – as she turns back around. The King is giving his speech, boasting of glory as he walks the line of soldiers.

                “Well, I didn’t exactly spend any time outside before I joined the Wardens.” The man behind her speaks again, and Ariah turns herself right around to face the chatterer.

                “ _You’re_ a Grey Warden?” She’s unimpressed – he can tell. “Do you even know how to use that stick?”

                “Lights come out this end,” He taps the top of the staff. “And sometimes they hit stuff.” He pokes her with it then, and she resists the urge to punch him. “Kind of like your arrows, but with cooler sounds.”

                “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an idiot?” Ariah inquires, rolling her eyes as she spins again.

                “Only everyone I’ve ever met.” She can practically hear the smile on his face. It’s infuriating.

                “Oh good.”

                Then, thankfully, it’s silent. She’s almost pleased, until she realizes it’s because everyone, for one eerie moment, has their eyes trained on the Wilds. Without a sound, bodies begin shambling from the fog. The air quivers with their growls and howls, and Ariah reminds herself to breathe as she readies her bow. The arrow she pulls from her quiver comes away flaming, pulling a gasp from her lips. She nearly drops it in surprise, but manages to throw an accusatory glance over her shoulder. The mage winks slyly at her, all too pleased with himself.

                Lightning strikes then, stopping the darkspawn in their advance as the army shuffles anxiously below her. The beasts shout and roar in excitement, waving their blades and beating their shields. The anticipation is palpable, thick and heavy as it sits in her lungs. Neither side moves, each measuring the other in a standoff fit for Cailan’s dreams of glory. Then the ground stirs, and Ariah realizes with horror that the tremble is the rush of darkspawn, charging across the field like an ocean bent on drowning them. They sweep through the valley in a flurry of rage and lust, wicked eyes bulging and sharp teeth twisting into sinful grins.

                The King’s voice booms across the field, and Ariah believes, for only a moment, that they might just win.

                “Archers!”

                The storm of arrows pierces hundreds of the beasts as Ariah quickly readies another. She lets it linger behind her for an extra second, hearing the crackle of the man’s magic before nocking the flaming arrow.

                “ _Hounds!_ ”

                She lets the arrow loose as the Mabari rush to meet the darkspawn. It’s a surprisingly overwhelming thing, she realizes, to watch the hounds leap and tear and maim. They’re vicious, unrelenting, and unmerciful.

                They’re terrifying.

                She spares a thought for Fang, and finds herself thankful – though she’s not really sure _why_ – that he’s with his mistress in the tower, and not down there on the field.

                _“ **For Ferelden**_!”

                Then the onslaught truly begins. Men’s screams are indistinguishable from those of the monsters, and the battlefield becomes a cluster of swords and shields. The plan is working, she thinks, but that does little to bolster Ariah’s confidence. She thinks of Lenora and Alistair, and of the slaughter below her, and is suddenly and inexplicably glad that they’re not down there.

                Then, to everyone’s surprise and dismay, a massive flaming boulder is launched towards the ruins. It hits a tower, exploding into smaller projectiles that rain over the field. The sight nearly stops her heart as another boulder hurdles towards them.

                Perhaps it doesn’t matter that they’re not down there, she thinks bitterly.

                Perhaps they’ll all die anyway.

* * *

                “Maker’s blood!” Lenora cries, her breath coming in short bursts as they run down the crumbling hall. “They know how to use the fucking ballistae; they’re using our own damn machines against us, Alistair! I thought you said they weren’t intelligent!”

                “Well it’s not like they know how to read!” Alistair retorts, huffing as they ascend _another_ flight of stairs.

                “You’d better hope not.” She growls back, driving her shoulder into the wall as she nearly trips over a cracked stair.

                “What are they doing ahead of the rest of the horde?” Alistair demands, throwing a hand up to catch her as she tries to regain her footing. “There wasn’t supposed to be any resistance here.”

                “You could try telling them they’re in the wrong place.” Lenora huffs uselessly, practically throwing herself up the last few steps. She’s exhausted, they all are – even Fang has lost his usual fire. They weren’t expecting the tower to be overrun, and they certainly weren’t expecting to have to fight to the top nearly single-handedly. Every part of her aches as she pushes the large wooden door open; she just wants it to be done.

                “Right,” Alistair drawls behind her. “Because clearly this is all just a misunderstanding. We’ll laugh about this la–” He stops when his chest hits Lenora’s back. The impact doesn’t seem to faze her as she stands stock still, and he can just barely hear her faint breath as she whispers.

                “ _Alistair…_ ”

                He looks up, over her shoulder, and suddenly his heart is in his throat. Blood spills from the creature’s jaws as it tears into the soldier’s body with no regard for steel or leather. Its twisted horns shine red and its throat rumbles as it turns its head to meet the Wardens frozen in the doorway. The thing – _ogre,_ Lenora thinks – drops what’s left of the poor man and howls at them, enraged at the interruption. The roar echoes off of every stone as drool and blood spew from its mouth.

                “Have you ever fought an ogre before?” Alistair yells, pulling her out of the way as a fist flies towards them. The evasion only succeeds in angering the beast further, and it bares its gnashing teeth with a wicked growl as it throws its weight around.

                “My brother pretended to be a troll once.” She calls back, rolling out of the way as it charges at her, horns poised and aimed at her throat. They make contact with the wall instead, and the ogre wavers for a moment, disoriented. “But I don’t think that qualifies!”

                The creature swings its arm back, still dazed, and Lenora barely manages to get her shield up before a massive clawed hand collides with her chest. The force of it sends her sword skittering out of her hand and she lands with a thud and an exasperated grunt. The stone is wet beneath her, and she realizes with equal parts relief and disgust that the blood is not her own. The dead soldier, his torso torn open and his entrails spilling from his body, lies beside her. The sight of it makes her heart race as she struggles to get up and away from him. She grabs his sword as she goes; Maker knows the poor sod won’t miss it now.

                Minutes feel like hours as they dodge and evade, running this way and that in hopes of avoiding the giant’s massive swings. She’s almost positive they’ll die of exhaustion before landing a decent hit on the ugly thing, and she’ll be damned if she’s survived everything just to die _here_. Fang, for all of his ferocity, can do little more than bite at the thing’s ankles. All she needs is one last push, one last chance. So she steels herself, preparing to rush the beast; if she’s lucky, she’ll hit something. Anything. Hopefully not Alistair.

                The man in question takes notice of her stance with no small measure of panic, and makes an effort of distracting the ogre. He sweeps forward, his blade cutting across the back of one leg as Fang mauls the other. Blood spurts and pools to the floor as the beast roars, spinning in its anger to swing its fists at him. It narrowly misses his shoulder, hitting the floor with an intensity that shakes the stones. He chastises himself for the closeness of it; he should have been faster in his retreat. Fang is circling back to Lenora, but the ogre’s attention is squarely on the Warden now clanging his sword against his shield. Good, Alistair thinks – better him than her.

                Then, by some miracle, the tip of a sword protrudes through the creature’s throat, blood spraying like rain as the blade twists and severs the ogre’s spine. It reaches up in agony, trying to grasp at its assailant. He can’t see her, but he hears the vertebrae snap apart with a revolting pop. Its arms go limp, and Alistair realizes too late that it’s falling backwards as its feet slip out from under it. He sees Lenora lunge from its back, abandoning the sword in the ogre’s neck in favour of not being crushed. Even then, he’s not sure if it’s enough.

                She lands roughly on the bloodied stone, barely managing to roll away before a gnarled horn lands inches from her face. Alistair stares in a frantic mix of shock and relief, unable to stop the cheek-splitting grin pulling at his lips.

                “I thought it was going to crush you.” He breathes, rushing to her side. Fang barks, gnawing at a horn as Alistair grasps Lenora’s hand to heave her to her feet. She offers a quick, appreciative smile before turning and spitting blood, wiping as much from her face as she can.

                “If I wasn’t tainted before.” She grumbles, and he takes in the sheer _amount_ of black blood coating her armor. “The damned thing bled all over me.”

                “I’m just glad we’re alive.” Alistair laughs, trying to wipe some of the thick ooze from her hair. He does little besides smear it around, and realizes with a start just what he’s doing. Lenora is looking up at him with wide eyes, and he’s quick to withdraw his hand as the blood rushes to his face. Maker’s breath! What was he thinking? He wasn’t. That’s it – he wasn’t thinking. He’d just gone and – and –

                “Your fat head broke my sword!”

                He’s shaken from his ramblings, looking back to her in confusion only to find that she isn’t actually speaking to him. She’s glaring accusatorially at the ogre, and the blade still sticking inelegantly from its throat. Fang barks again, and Alistair turns to see the hound pawing at a sword lying on the far end of the room.

                “Actually,” He says, moving to retrieve the weapon. “I think its fat head broke _his_ sword.” Lenora watches as he points to the mangled man, then as Alistair turns _her_ sword over in his hands. His fingers ghost over the crest on the hilt, trying to place it. He recognizes the symbol, but it’s been so long since he’s studied heraldry. He stares, trying to recall a memory he’s not sure he ever possessed, until Lenora clears her throat and offers a torch off the wall in exchange for her blade. He shakes his head, his ears still pink from the hair incident, and gladly takes the torch. She wipes her sword off as best she can before sheathing it, holding the pommel tightly as though she might lose it again. It doesn’t look damaged, thank the Maker. She doesn’t know what she’d do if she lost her family’s sword.

                “We should light the beacon.” Alistair coughs. “We’ve probably missed the signal already.”

                The kindling doesn’t take long to light, and Lenora wonders what the beacon looks like to the soldiers on the field.

                _Hope_ , she thinks.

                Then, as she heaves a sigh of relief and exhaustion, a tingle in her spine prefaces the sound of boots on the stone stairs. Every hair on her body stands on end and her senses overload and blur together until the only distinguishable thought is _darkspawn_. Alistair had told them Grey Wardens can sense them, but now? Now it felt like they were everywhere.

                Before she can think to pull her sword again, a sickly thud sends shockwaves through her bones. She freezes, unable to think, to breathe, as her legs quiver with the effort of standing. Her mouth opens, begging for air, but all she manages is a desperate whine that sounds far away, even to her own ears. Her lungs burn and her throat dries up and she swears all she can hear is Alistair shouting for her. His voice echoes in her skull as another shockwave forces her backwards. Her fingers are numb, senseless as they reach and play on the arrow piercing her gut. The first one sits heavily in her chest, but they feel more like pinpricks now as blood spills past her lips. She doesn’t feel the third arrow when it hits, nor the stone when her legs finally give out on her.

                Time slows when her head hits the floor, black spots dancing in the fog of her eyesight. Thunder rumbles in her ears and the floor shakes beneath her, feeling all too ready to give way. Her heartbeat, she thinks, has never been so devastating. She can’t feel the life leave her body, but she sees the remarkably red blood seep into the cracks in the stone. She thinks of Alistair; she hopes he’s not suffering. Not like this.

                She thinks of Fang, and manages one last quivering breath to cry out with the agony of it.

                But the thunder quiets, the rhythm slowing until it’s more like she’s underwater – muted, far off, fuzzy – and she’s thankful for the quiet. She’s dying, she knows. All of this, the fire and the blood and the _lives given_ to get her here – and she’s dying anyway.

                _She’s dying anyway_.

* * *

                “Where are Loghain’s men?!” Ariah demands, to anyone and everyone close enough to hear her. She and the mage had long since abandoned their position on the outcropping, having narrowly avoided another flaming boulder that took out what was left of their perch. Now they’re wading between staggered battles, sending arrows and lightning bolts at whatever enemies they can find.

                “The signal’s been lit!” The mage shouts back at her. “They should have charged by now!” The darkspawn in front of her erupts into flame and she lets loose another series of arrows as she whirls around to search for any sign of the Teyrn’s forces. All she can see, beyond fire and steel and teeth, is the outline of men marching down the King’s Road.

                Away from the battle.

                “That bastard!” She screeches, her jaw clenched in rage as her ears start to burn. “ _That fucking deserter!_ ” She spins back, looking for the mage, only to be met with the sight of an ogre charging the field.

                “They quit the field?!” The mage cries somewhere to her right, but she can’t look away from the massive creature.

                “They were never on the field!” She shouts, backing up until she catches sight of him in her peripheral vision. She wants to grab him, to tell him to run, but all she can do is watch as the ogre snatches the King from the battlefield like a plaything. One squeeze – that’s it – one squeeze and she can _see_ the moment his spine snaps in the beast’s hand.

                The world stops. No one moves. All she can hear is white noise as she tries to think of something, anything, to save them.

                The King is dead.

                They’re losing.

                “Mage!” She shouts, running to him as he struggles to keep a hurlock at bay. She takes an arrow from her quiver, plunging it into the back of the thing’s neck and grabbing the mage’s arm. “The King’s dead!”

                “He’s –? Where’s Duncan?” He’s looking over the top of her head, scanning for any sign of the Commander of the Grey, but Ariah knows better.

                “We have to go!” She insists, trying to pull him along. He stumbles, but pulls back, his eyes locked on the ogre. She glances to see the monster fling Duncan across the field, his daggers embedded in its chest. “We have to _go!_ ” His head snaps back to her as he finally registers her words.

                “We can’t desert!” He seethes.

                “Your General just did!” She grabs at his robes, pulling him down so she doesn’t have to shout her next words. “ _I’m not dying here._ ” She lets him go to shoot an advancing genlock, then offers him a quick glance before she sets off running. He watches her head straight for the Wilds, and he considers his options. _Quickly._ He can stay and die with his King, or he can run – again – and potentially live to see another day. The way he sees it, the Wilds could just as easily kill him as the darkspawn. Not that it makes him any less of a coward.

                Cursing himself the whole way, he grips his staff a little tighter and sprints for the trees.

* * *

                The only thing she can feel is how heavy her chest is. Her bones ache, it hurts to breathe – but she _is_ breathing. That in itself feels like a miracle. Then she opens her eyes, cracks them open just enough to see the weight on her chest isn’t an injury or a burden. It’s a wide, soft brown head with golden eyes that flit to hers in recognition, and she can’t help the shaky gasp that escapes her lips.

                It hurts to move, her limbs stiff, but she wraps her arms around Fang with such desperate joy she’s afraid she might hurt him. Fang, for his part, wriggles like a puppy with excitement, kissing her face and burying his head in the crook of her neck. He’s not hurt from what she can see, no blood or bald spots or –

                She stops, frowning, and finally registers where she is. That is to say – she doesn’t _know_ where she is. She’s in a bed, in a dimply lit cabin with piles of books lining the walls. She panics for a moment, but Fang doesn’t seem bothered as he pushes his nose in her ear. She laughs, trying to sit up, but the hound in reluctant to remove his weight from her.

                Then the door opens, and Lenora finds herself – once again – with more questions than answers.

* * *

                Outside, the Wilds are eerily quiet as Alistair stares out at the fog. He’s lost. He’s burning and numb and trembling all at the same time and he is absolutely, _hopelessly lost._ What does he do now? What _can_ he do? Everyone is dead – _Duncan is_ – is –  

                And Lenora. Morrigan’s mother, the apostate, claims she’s fine. Alive. Resting. But he saw the arrows. _Three_ arrows jutting from her skin as she just _stands there_ and it’s all he can see when he closes his eyes. He watched it happen, he watched her die and he…he can’t do this alone. He can’t be the only one left. He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to believe the witch, to believe that she’s okay, but the doubt swirls in his blood as thick as the taint.

                He touches the puckered flesh, still sensitive and healing, below his own ribs. One arrow, and he hadn’t truly had time to process it before the world went dark. The scar itches something awful; his tunic irritates it, but the witch has already threatened him for scratching at it.

                “ _You want it to look worse?_ ” She’d grumbled. He huffs a sigh and pulls his hand away before she can catch him poking at it again. It’s an ugly thing, he thinks, but it’s no worse than the others. When Lenora wakes – _if_ Lenora wakes – he wonders if she’ll hate her scars.

                “You worry too much, young man.” The old woman says then, and he’s dwelling on a response when he hears his name. It’s barely more than a whisper, drifting to his ears on the wind as he turns around to meet the source. And there she is, beaten and broken, but bandaged. Whole. Alive.

                He reaches her in a few long strides, his arms engulfing her before he can stop himself. He realizes too late that he may be hurting her, but her arms wind around his waist and she holds on just as tight.

                “I thought you were dead.” He breathes, the words rustling strands of soft, dark hair. She takes a shuddering breath and buries her head against his neck, tightening her hold. She feels solid in his arms, solid and strong even as she breaks apart. He can feel her fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt as she trembles. He wants, more than anything, to stop the shaking as she tries to hold back tears.

                “They’re gone.” She says, and his heart stutters with the pain of it. “They’re all gone. We’re all that’s left.”

                He hates the words as they leave her lips. He hates that they’re true. But a moment ago, ‘we’ was ‘I’, and he holds her a little closer.

* * *

 

> _maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_
> 
> _i shall embrace the light. i shall weather the storm._
> 
> _i shall endure._
> 
> _what you have created, no one can tear asunder._
> 
> _- **trials 1:14**_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's Darian Amell, the bane of Ariah's existence. Luckily she only has to put up with him for the entirety of the foreseeable future.


	5. Chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenora finds some new companions. Ariah can't get rid of the one she has.

> _all things in this world are finite._
> 
> _what one man gains, another has lost._
> 
> _those who steal from their brothers and sisters_
> 
> _do harm to their livelihood and to their peace of mind._
> 
> _our maker sees this with a heavy heart_
> 
> _**\- transfigurations 1:5** _

* * *

Lenora wonders, not for the first time, just what the hell she was thinking when she agreed to this plan. She and Alistair are the only Grey Wardens left in the country – that, in and of itself, is a bad start. They have the treaties, yes, but that doesn’t mean they know how to use them. Let alone how to play diplomat and war chief at the same time. She _wants_ to fight, but this? This isn’t standing on a battlefield with a thousand other men.

                This is the fate of a nation in her hands.

                She glances back, to Morrigan and Alistair as they walk in uneasy silence. _And another thing!_

                Flemeth. _The_ Flemeth. The _Witch of the Wilds,_ Flemeth. It hadn’t been a poor joke, or a scared man’s accusation. Lenora knows all about the legend, of the scorned lover and her deal with a demon. She can’t prove anything, but she has no other explanation for how the woman saved them from a tower overrun by darkspawn. Or for the three circular scars that should have ended this misguided crusade before it began. She had drowned in her own blood, yet here she stands.

                The entire situation leaves a bad taste in her mouth as they continue down the Imperial Highway. She hasn’t been this far south in years, not since her father last brought her to Redcliffe as a child. She’s never been to Lothering, as far as she knows, but Morrigan says it’s the closest village to the Wilds.

                And that, of course, is how they’ve ended up here. Facing a crew of armed highwaymen demanding ten silvers for the right to pass. Morrigan has already made her discontent clear, her first instinct being to insult them, proceeded by several threats of bodily harm. Alistair is, at least, a touch more subtle with his contempt for the bandits.

                “You’re toll collectors, then?” Lenora asks, tiring of the game they’ve been playing. She wonders if anything on this trip will be easy.

                “Indeed!” The man, presumably their leader, enthuses. “For the upkeep of the Imperial Highway! It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?”

                “Oh, quite.” Lenora nods, resting her arm on the hilt of her blade as it sits at her hip. “Teeming with bandits, it seems.”

                “Not much gets past you, I see.” The man sighs, narrowing his eyes as the enthusiasm fades. Hanric, the stubby one beside him, chortles and grins as he brandishes a pair of daggers.

                “It’s not really a toll.” He says giddily, like it’s a secret. “We’re just robbing you, see?”

                “Do shut up!” The leader snaps, eyeing him in disbelief. “A genlock would have understood that.”

                “You’d have a chance against a genlock.” Lenora hums, pulling her sword from its sheath as casually as she can. Her arm aches with the weight of it, and the arrow wound under her collarbone provides an uncomfortable itch.

                “Well, I can’t say I’m pleased to hear that. We have rules, you know.”

                “Right!” Hanrick chimes in again. “We get to ransack your corpses, then. Those are the rules.”

                A short, tired laugh escapes Lenora’s throat as she readies her sword.

                “You can certainly try.”

* * *

                “How do you know where we’re going?” He’s met with silence, as he has for the last several hours. It hasn’t deterred him thus far. “Because we’ve been in the Wilds forever. How do you know we’re even going in the right direction?”

                The elf spares him a glance – a weary, irritated glance.

                “We could be heading even further into uncharted territory! What if we’re – ?”

                “Sweet Creators! Do you ever _shut up_?”

                He huffs, crossing his arms as the grouchy woman leads them between the trees. She seems sure enough of herself, but he isn’t confident unless his feet are planted firmly on a road with markers every fifty feet.

                _Or firmly planted in the tower library,_ he thinks grumpily.

                He’s silent for a moment, listening to the wildlife and noting that it could potentially kill him at any moment.

                “I don’t even know your name.” He says then, and the woman rounds on him so quickly he’s pretty sure he’s about to die.

                “My name is Ariah.” She seethes, her hands curled into fists at her side. “I am a Dalish elf. I am not a Grey Warden by choice and _now_ – by your beloved Maker’s divine will – I may be one of the only ones left.” She starts to turn again, but stops short. “Also,” She adds. “ _Shut up_.”

                He waits a moment. Then two.

                “I’m Darian.”

                “I swear, I’ll kill you.”

* * *

                “I want to talk about Sten, the qunari you imprisoned.”

                The Revered Mother purses her lips, her peaceful expression overcome by impassive dismissal.

                “It might have been kinder to execute him.” She shrugs lightly, standing from her chair. “But I leave his fate to the Maker. Why does he interest you?”

                Lenora hears her mother’s voice in her head, and almost manages a smile. Eleanor had an aptitude for honeyed words, much to Bryce’s chagrin, and had seen fit to share her wealth of knowledge. Coercion isn’t the most honorable skill Lenora could have picked up from her mother, certainly, but it’s a useful one.

                “I was hoping you might release him into my custody.” She says, and the Mother very nearly rolls her eyes.

                “Your custody?” She guffaws. “And who might _you_ be?”

                “Rather rude for an honored, spiritual leader.” Morrigan mutters quietly, earning a warning glance from Alistair. The other Warden stands in silence, content with witnessing the battle of wills.

                Lenora, for her part, weighs her options. The Grey Wardens have the right of conscription, she knows. But she’s not comfortable enough with her position to start announcing it to strangers, especially with no evidence of her claim.

                “I’m the daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland.” She settles on, and prays she isn’t using her family’s name to create even more chaos. She’s not sure if her sword or her shield truly count as ‘proof’ of her nobility, but it’s a stronger claim than ‘ _I’m a Warden, just trust me.’_ She doubts many people come to _Lothering_ pretending to be nobility, regardless. At the very least, she’ll take the Mother by surprise. “I intend to defend Ferelden against the Blight. The qunari has expressed a desire to atone. Release him to me, let me relieve you of him, and he will either aid in the salvation of this country or die in defense of it.”

                She can see the title ringing in the woman’s head as she considers. Her father had been one of the most powerful men in the country – surely that means _something_.

                “I suppose,” The Mother starts reluctantly. “I suppose you are in a position to judge him.” She turns to rummage through her desk, and Lenora can hear her heart beat in her ears. She’s not sure if the woman believes her, or if she simply isn’t willing to take the chance. “Very well,” She says as she turns back to them. “Take my key, and take _him_ far away from here."

* * *

                “Which way are we going?”

                “North.”

                “How do you know?”

                “Look at the sun.”

                “What good would that do?”

                Ariah pinches the bridge of her nose, wondering what twisted force had compelled her to bring this insufferable man with her. They’d left the Wilds long ago; she could have easily left him to fend for himself the moment they broke the treeline. By the Creators, she could have left him on the _battlefield_.

                “We should hit the Imperial Highway before nightfall.” She says, summoning every ounce of patience in her body. “Once we do, we can follow it to the next village and resupply.”

                “How do you know we’ll reach the Highway?” Darian asks, speaking for the sake of speaking. “I thought you grew up in the woods.”

                “First of all,” She begins, desperately trying to hold back the tirade of tongue-lashings she could give him for his arrogance. She thought mages were supposed to be educated in that prison tower of theirs. “The Dalish travel; I did not just grow up ‘in the woods’. Second, I stole a _map_. And _third_ , I know how to navigate.”

                Darian at least has the decency to look embarrassed.

                “We’re quite a duo.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck as Ariah groans in exasperation.

                “Oh yes, because one of the Dalish and a _mage_ are widely accepted throughout the lands. The people will love us.” She grinds out, contemplating the effectiveness of literally sewing someone’s mouth shut.

                “The Dalish know a bit of magic, do they not?”

                “You have this amazingly aggravating way of not _shutting up_.”

                “It’s a gift.” He shrugs.

                “It’s a death wish.” She warns.

                “Fair enough."

* * *

                Alistair, for all his thoughts and sentiments on the Chantry, can’t help the uneasy feeling sitting like a stone in his gut. He may not have been the best behaved during his time in the Chantry, but the thought of manipulating a Revered Mother sets his teeth on edge. Lenora seems unbothered, which only heightens his discomfort, and he can’t help himself. He has to know.

                “Were you lying?” He asks, unprompted. She frowns, turning from the Chanter’s board to meet his eye in confusion. He watches her expectantly, and her brow furrows even deeper as Morrigan chides some choice words and wanders off.

                “What?” She finally sputters, rather ineloquently.

                “Were you lying?” He repeats, trying to resist the urge to fidget nervously. “When you told the Mother you were the Teyrn’s daughter.” Her eyebrows raise as his words register, and a soft ‘oh’ wisps past her lips. They both stare, frozen in place, and Alistair isn’t sure what answer he wants. He doesn’t know which is worse. She’s either a liar or an orphan – for her sake, he almost hopes it’s the former.

                “No.” She answers finally, barely more than a whisper. Her eyes never leave his; he wonders if she finds whatever she’s looking for.

                “You’re a Cousland.” He says, hating the words as they leave his throat. He remembers the crest on her sword, lessons coming back to him in fragments – the heraldry of a murdered family. He remembers hearing the rumors at Ostagar. Tales of fire and blood passing between soldiers like Orlesian gossip. “You’re…I…Maker, I’ve been on and on about Duncan, and you…your whole…”

                “You don’t have to do that.”

                “What?” He stutters from his thoughts of guilt and refocuses his attention on her.

                “My loss is no greater than yours.” She smiles. It’s sad, lonely – but it’s a smile. He doesn’t know how she can, and his heart misses a beat in awe of it. “We both ended up in the same place, at the same time. We got here somehow.” Then she turns back to the Chanter’s board, eyes on a plea to locate a lost mother. “Don’t belittle your grief because of mine.”

                “Why didn’t you say anything?” He inquires softly, feeling helpless beside her – for her. “You just let me prattle on; if I had any idea –”

                “What would you have said?” She interrupts, glancing back, already knowing the answer.

                “I –”

                “Have any words made it easier?”

                “I – …no.” He sighs, defeated. He shakes his head, regretting his own naivety. “No, they haven’t.”

                She puts a hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze as she nods and moves to pass him.

                “They never will."

* * *

                “Would you stop that?”

                “What?”

                “The whistling! It’s insufferable.”

                “Can you whistle?”

                “That has _nothing_ to do with it.”

* * *

                 “No. Oh, no. That is _not okay_!” Lenora shouts, her shield poised in front of her and her sword pointed to the bank of the river. Then, quieter, almost a little lost: “Why does this keep happening to me?”

                Morrigan glances at her oddly, scrutinizing the desperate look in the woman’s eyes before looking at the alcove. Alistair, for his part, thinks there’s far too much wicked mirth in her voice when she speaks.

                “They’re only spiders."

* * *

                “I thought you said we’d have reached the Highway by now.”

                “I said we’d reach it before sundown.”

                “Well we’re cutting it close. Look at the sun!”

                “…”

                “…”

                “It’s barely midday.”

                “…”

                “…”

                “I was just testing you.”

                “Oh, of course."

* * *

                “We need a new plan.” Lenora says as they cross the bridge. She throws a wary glance at the tavern, but it seems to have quieted down, for now.

                “Being _hunted_ throws something of a wrench in our plans, yes.” Alistair agrees with a sneer, shaking his head. He’s furious, she knows – she is too. Loghain is claiming the Wardens are responsible for the King’s death and she wants to march into Denerim and shove her sword through the traitor’s gut. But she can’t, not while they’re squarely on the country’s wanted list. And then she’d been _stupid_ and sent Loghain’s _dog_ back with a message. She should have killed him, but she let the Chantry sister influence her and now Loghain knows with certainty that they’re alive. But, she thinks absently, he also knows that _they_ know the truth. Perhaps her mother’s influence will be more beneficial than she’d imagined.

                “The treaties are worthless if no one agrees to see us.” She says, looking to Alistair as they approach the edge of town. “How do we convince an entire country that –”

                “Hold it!”

                Lenora startles as they round Sten’s, now empty, cage. A horde of men – if it can truly be called that after actually witnessing _the_ horde – blocks their path to the Highway. They’re armed, as well as they can be for farmers, and don’t look as though they’re in the mood to talk. Alistair stops beside her, hand on the hilt of his sword as his expression sours more so than before.

                “We know you’re Grey Wardens!” One of the men shouts, pointing his knife at them. “There’s a bounty on your heads that could fill a lot of empty bellies!”

                “You don’t want to do this.” Alistair says, drawing his sword. “ _We_ don’t want to do this.”

                “The Teyrn says you’re traitors!” He shakes his head. “And I’ve got a family to take care of!”

                “We’ve all got families!” Another man cries, and shouts of agreement fill the air. Lenora’s hair stands on end as she grimaces.

                “Then go home and be with them!” She implores, reaching to put a hand on Alistair’s arm before he can advance. “Don’t –!”

                “ _Carver!_ ”

                The interruption stops Lenora short, and one dark head pokes out from the masses, confusion and aggravation plastered on his face. Lenora follows the voice to see a woman storming towards them, looking – miraculously – angrier than the mob.

                “Just what in the Maker’s name do you think you’re doing?” She demands, storming past the Wardens as they stare.

                “I – I’m –!”

                “Being an idiot? Back for a _day_ and already harassing travellers?” She seethes. “You’re _all_ being idiots!” She pushes past the men, earning grunts and huffs, before grabbing Carver’s ear. “Come on.” She tugs, eliciting a loud yelp followed by quieter whines and complaints. “How about you go and explain to Mother how you tried to murder a group of strangers over _coin_.”

                “But – Kaeline – !”

                “ _Enough,_ Carver.” That effectively shuts him up, and Lenora genuinely feels sorry for the boy who just threatened her life. “ _Look_ at them.”

                The group, drained of their murderous drive through one angry woman’s sheer _will_ , mutters amongst itself. They’ve lost their muster; if Lenora’s lucky, they’ll meander off before the turmoil builds up again.

                “If they are Grey Wardens,” Kaeline continues, marching past the Wardens again. “Don’t you think they’ve fought enough monsters to handle some old farmers and a couple of kids? Andraste’s ass, Carver!” She pushes him back towards town with a smack on the back of his head for good measure. “What’s wrong with you?”

                The bickering continues, fading out as they move further away, but the rumblings of the mob begin to disperse. Lenora almost wants to turn around and chase Kaeline down to thank her, but the more sensible part of her brain is screaming for them to leave Lothering as quickly as possible.

                “Ah, public emasculation.” Alistair sighs wistfully, re-sheathing his sword as the crowd thins out.

                “If it keeps everyone alive, I’ll take it.” Lenora says, still unsure as to what _exactly_ had just transpired as they continue on their way.

                “Why didn’t we just kill them?” Sten says, monotonous as ever, and Lenora wonders how long it will be before she regrets freeing him.

                “Because, Sten.” She answers simply. It’s a tactic that worked with Oren, perhaps it works on qunari as well. She’s not expecting Sten to pout and cross his arms and ask ‘but _why_?’ until he tires himself out.

                “He draws a relevant point –”

                “Because, Morrigan.” She interrupts, waving the witch off as she notices a figure by the ramp up to the Highway. She’s not about to explain the decision to _not_ kill an entire village.

                “That’s doesn’t even make se –”

                “ _Because_ , _Morrigan_.” She says, harder, and prays that her eyes are deceiving her as a head of red hair comes into focus.

                “Touchy, touchy.” Morrigan chides, pursing her lips as they finally reach the ramp.

                “Hello again!”

                And Lenora wants to throw her hands in the air. She wants to pull her hair out and stomp back to the Wilds to live out the rest of her days as a hermit. The Chantry sister is pushy, and unrelenting, and entirely too cheery for someone claiming the Maker speaks to her. She speaks of miracles and omens, insisting on accompanying them despite the dangers. Lenora doesn’t know this woman from a rock on the ground, but Alistair takes less convincing. So, after a short argument and a declaration that Alistair will be responsible for the woman, they agree to bring her along.

                Lenora, for her part, can already see the end of this particular investment. She hopes the darkspawn like the taste of devotion.

                This is going to be a long trip.

* * *

                “What is that?” Alistair asks cautiously, nodding to the parcel sitting at Lenora’s side. She’d removed it from her pack upon making camp, setting it on the ground next to her as she unsheathed her sword for cleaning. The neat packaging is soggy and torn, and the pale pink ribbon is frayed along the edges. Lenora glances down at the box with pursed lips, nodding in understanding when she registers what he’s referring to.

                “Oh,” She says. “It’s a cake.” Then she’s returning to her blade, and Alistair can only blink in confusion.

                “It’s…a cake.” He repeats carefully. Lenora’s only response is to nod again, her attention remaining squarely on the cloth in her hand as she wipes down her family’s sword. It’s a nice sword, Alistair thinks, well made – but he needs answers. “What’s it doing…you know…here?”

                “Fang brought it to me, when we were in Lothering.” She answers, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

                “Fang. The dog. Your dog brought you a cake.”

                “ _Yes,_ Alistair.” She huffs, finally looking back up from her work. “What’s the issue here? It’s not like he _baked_ it.” He doesn’t really have a response for that. He knows Mabari are intelligent, sure – but the hound managed to – presumably – _steal_ an entire cake. Where would he have even stolen it _from_? It’s not as though refugees were using the last of their supplies to bake pastries.

                “Alright,” He says, shaking his head. “Accepting the fact that Fang _stole_ an entire cake for you – why is it just sitting there?”

                “What do you mean?”

                “Well, I mean – it was in his mouth, right? You can’t eat it so…why…keep it?”

                Her brow furrows so quickly he wants to crawl into that box and die.

                “It’s a _gift_.” She says, but whether she’s genuinely offended or upset on Fang’s behalf, he doesn’t know. “I can’t just throw it away.”

                “Oh, yeah, sure!” He corrects himself, stumbling over the words in his haste to appease her. “Of course, how silly of me.” He risks a glance at Fang and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The hound is lying on the other side of the fire, glaring at him through the flames. Lenora herself has narrowed her eyes, suspicious of his response, and Alistair has never felt more cornered than he does in this moment. Darkspawn would have been less frightening than this. “I’ve never had a dog?” He tries. It’s the best he’s got.

                “Mhmm.” Lenora hums, and Fang trots over and plop himself back down right next to the box of mushy, dog-spit covered cake. He grunts and sighs as he settles, and Alistair is at a loss for words. He’s being side-eyed by a dog. His mistress smiles though, catching Alistair off guard, and chuckles quietly to herself as Fang curls himself around the box possessively.

                Alistair, for all his wits, finally realizes what’s happening.

                “You’re teasing me.” He accuses, and he can’t even be mad when a brilliant smile lights up her face at his epiphany. “Here I am thinking I’m going to get mauled in my sleep over a _cake_ and you’re teasing me!”

                “Couldn’t help myself.” She shrugs. He’s not sure if she’s blushing or if he’s just imagining that interesting little detail.

                “I’ll remember this.” He warns.

                “You couldn’t remember where you put your bedroll.” She laughs, returning to her sword. Even Fang huffs in amusement.

                “Morrigan moved it!” He defends, appalled. “I know she did.”

                “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She pacifies, and he knows he’s not winning this one. But the lighthearted banter is a welcome, desperately needed relief. And he can’t say he doesn’t like the way her eyes crinkle in the corners when she smiles at him. He can’t say he doesn’t like anything about her.

                He really is hopeless.

* * *

                Darkspawn. Thousands upon thousands of them clamour and pace, swarming beneath the earth. They’re red in the lava’s glow, converging on her consciousness. They’re all she can see, all she can hear, until a flame erupts and encompasses everything. A dragon, black and dreadful, roars until the world shakes with the force of it.

                She jolts from her slumber so quickly, she barely avoids a collision between Alistair’s head and her own. He sits back, watching her carefully, and it takes her a moment to realize she’s in camp. She’s above ground, she’s safe – for the moment. She lets out a slow, deep breath and holds her head in her hands. She tries to purge the images from her mind, but they rattle around stubbornly all the same.

                “Bad dreams?” Alistair asks, already knowing the answer. He fiddles with his fingers, tapping them absently against his knees. The campfire flickers behind him, and she remembers that he’s been on watch. At least she hadn’t woken him.

                “It seemed so real.” She says, staring into the flames.

                “Well it is real,” He says in response. “Sort of.”

                She’s not sure what _that_ means, but she doesn’t like it.

                “I told you about sensing darkspawn? Hearing them?” She nods, and he purses his lips. “That’s what your dream was. The archdemon…it – it ‘talks’ to the horde. We feel it, just as they do. That’s how we know this is really a Blight.”

                “So the dragon…?” She trails off, not entirely sure if she wants the answer.

                “I don’t know if it’s really a dragon.” He shrugs, scratching at his knee. “But it sure looks like one.” He looks as uncomfortable as she feels. She hates that she’s put him in that position, but she’s too unnerved to be embarrassed. “It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand the archdemon a bit, but I sure can’t.”

                Lenora visibly cringes at the thought of that _thing_ speaking in her head, and Alistair catches the expression with apprehension. What would it feel like to understand an Old God? What unholy words could she possibly discern from a demon? The _arch_ demon?

                “Anyhow,” Alistair coughs, scratching his ribs through his shirt. “When I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should…I dunno…” He moves, bracing his hands on his knees to stand, and Lenora can’t explain the compulsion to reach out and stop him. Her hand on his skin startles him, but he abandons his retreat.

                “Thank you, Alistair.” She says, offering the most honest smile she can manage. “I appreciate it.”

                “That’s what I’m here for.” He nods, settling in again, a little closer than the first time. She’s reluctant to, but she withdraws her hand all the same – she swears her palm is on fire. “To deliver unpleasant news and witty one-liners.”

                She’s thankful for Alistair’s company; she knows why, even if she doesn’t want to dwell on it. She hums quietly as they watch the fire, the faintest hint of pale light creeping over the tops of the trees. The sun will be up soon enough, and the rest of their disgruntled group will be up and about before she has a chance to reclaim any lost sleep.

                _I can sleep when I’m dead,_ she thinks. And that isn’t too far off – especially if the demon in her head has anything to say about it. 

* * *

> _the old gods will call to you,_
> 
> _from their ancient prisons they will sing._
> 
> _dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,_
> 
> _on blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,_
> 
> _the first of my children, lost to night._
> 
> **_\- silence 3:6, dissonant verse_ **


	6. Chapter V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenora makes another friend. Ariah finds an old one.

 

> _those who had sought to claim_
> 
> _heaven by violence destroyed it. what was_
> 
> _golden and pure turned black._
> 
> _those who had once been mage-lords,_
> 
> _the brightest of their age,_
> 
> _were no longer men, but monsters._
> 
> _- **threnodies 12:1**    _       

* * *

                Red. Everything is coated in a thick, warm _red_. It takes over, soaking into the ground, poisoning the earth. It’s all red; from her hands to the ground beneath her feet.

                Three lifeless bodies stare up at her in warning. Warm, golden eyes are dull, accusatory. Fiery hair is matted, crusted, thick with blood. A wise, welcoming smile is a set of numb, emotionless lips that speak the same words over and over, even in death.

                _Try to leave._

_I dare you._

The monsters and demons all shout at her, a symphony of shrieks and screams as she stares, unable to look away. They’ll kill them, she knows. Her friends. She’s disobeyed, she’s seen through them, their shroud, and now they’re going to kill the only people she has left.            

                _Try to leave_ , they whisper; taunting and omnipresent. Alistair’s lips move, pale and sickly – but his eyes are gone, faded, dead. She can’t stand to look at them. She can’t look away.

                Where is she to go? What is she to do, now that she’s seen through the façade? Where do they expect her to run to? Her friends are gone. Her _family_ is gone. This isn’t the heaven she was promised. There is no holiness here.

                _I **dare** you. _

There’s only red.

                The entire Fade is drowning in a sea of blood.

* * *

                “I thought we agreed to go to Redcliffe?” Alistair’s worry colours his tone as he dwells on the sick Arl Eamon. He’s grown increasingly persistent since learning of the Arl’s illness from one of his knight’s in Lothering, but Lenora still isn’t convinced. Redcliffe _had_ been their first priority, in truth, but news on the road has provided an unwelcome delay.

                “You heard those men.” Lenora says, trying to reason with him. “They’re not letting anyone enter or leave the tower. Something’s happening with the mages.”

                “But what if they’re just…I don’t know, closed for cleaning, or something?”

                “Then we’ll request the help of squeaky clean mages, instead of dusty ones.” She bites her lip, crossing her right arm over her abdomen to splay her fingers over her burns. They’re insufferably itchy this morning; she wants nothing more than to tear away the entire layer of skin and start anew. “Look, Alistair – you wanted me to lead. This is me leading.”

                “I know,” He says quickly. “I know, I didn’t mean to question you. I just…I’m afraid the Arl doesn’t have much time left.”

                “If it’s as bad as everyone fears,” Morrigan quips, spectacularly unhelpful in all regards. “Your Arl will likely be dead before we even reach his castle.” Lenora hisses a quiet warning, but the words have done their damage. Alistair’s face, however briefly, is shadowed in sorrow. She doesn’t know the extent of his relationship with the Arl, but the thought of the man dying has him twisted up in knots. She doesn’t want him to lose another person he cares for – if she can avoid it –

                “They’re looking for Andraste’s ashes, Alistair.” Leliana says carefully, and Lenora already dislikes where this particular train of thought is heading. “While I have faith they exist, they’re widely regarded as a legend. A last hope. I am sorry, but –”

                “The man is beyond your help.” Sten interjects sternly. Lenora would smack him if he didn’t absolutely terrify her. “Turn your attention to something that matters.”

                “Alright, I get it.” Alistair bites out, glancing back to Lenora. She tries, for what it’s worth, to convey her sincerity as she mouths an apology. She doubts it means much. “We’ll go north, then. But the witch stays at camp. Maker knows we don’t need to bring an apostate before a garrison of trained Templars.”

                “As opposed to the failed Templar I stand before now?” Morrigan retorts, ever so pleased with herself, and Lenora wonders when she started mediating fights between children.

                “Remind me again why we didn’t leave her in the Wilds.” Alistair groans, squirming uncomfortably in his armor as they readjust their course.

                “Because she turns into a giant bear when provoked.” Lenora answers. It’s really the only answer she has to give.

                “Ah, yes.” Alistair hums. “That was it.”

* * *

                She’s dreaming. She must be. The absurdity of the last ten minutes swirls in her brain like a sugar-induced dream from her childhood. The man in front of her isn’t even _reading_ the treaties, barely glossing over them as he clicks his tongue.

                “Oh, a Grey Warden seal.” He says, looking pointedly at Lenora as he hands the parchment back to her. “You know, I have some documents too. They say I’m the Queen of Antiva. What do you think of that?”

                “Not much,” She grumbles. “Considering you’re clearly a Templar.”

                “Don’t question royalty.” He warns in offense. She wants to punch him.

                She wants to punch a lot of people.

                “Anyway, it was nice _chatting_ with you.” He shrugs, waving them off. “Now, on your way. Right now. Go.”

                “Can’t we work _something_ out?” Lenora asks in exasperation. They need to reach the tower. They didn’t take a weeklong detour so that they could be turned away by a cheeky Templar with too much time on his hands. She’s getting across this damn lake; she’ll swim to the bloody tower if she has to.

                “I am feeling a little peckish.”

                She very nearly does it. The only thing stopping her from driving her fist into this obnoxious man’s face is Alistair’s hand on her wrist. She looks to him in disbelief and is shocked to find a small smile on his lips. At least _someone_ is having a good time.

                “You expect me to feed you?” She grinds out, letting her fingers unfurl as she tries to reclaim some patience. What kind of man – ?

                “Parshara!” Sten’s booming voice startles the Templar, eliciting a squeal as he watches the qunari with caution. Sten brushes past Lenora in aggravation, knocking her into Alistair as he goes. Her fellow Warden offers an ‘oof!’ as her shoulder collides with his chest, his hands grasping her shoulders to steady her as Sten shoves something into the Templar’s hands. “Here! Munch on these if you like.” He says, and then he’s off, looming in the background like nothing had transpired.

                “Ooh!” The Templar whistles giddily, as Lenora tries to right herself again. “Cookies!”

                “ _What_?” The Warden gapes. She turns to Alistair, pointing to the insufferably childish man picking at the pastries. “Seriously?” Alistair only shrugs, rubbing at his ribs as Lenora rounds on Sten.

                “I am content to part with them if it saves us from this fool.” He says, and she sighs.

                “Where did you get them?” She asks, dreading the answer.

                “There was a child.” _Oh no_. “A fat, slovenly thing in the last village we passed.”

                “Sten…”

                “I relieved him of these confections.”

                “ _Sten…!_ ”

                “He didn’t need more.”

                “You _stole_ cookies from a _child_?” She closes her eyes, scrubbing her hands over her face as she prays to the Maker. She’s not sure if she’s asking for patience or a well-placed lightning strike. She’ll take either.

                “For his own good.” Sten confirms, and she grimaces.

                “Oh, sweet Maker…”

                “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, yes?” The Templar cuts in, licking the crumbs from his lips as he watches them in delight. “We can go across now, if you really want.”

                “ _Yes,_ ” Lenora groans. “Maker, please, let’s go.”

                “Come along then, I suppose.” He shrugs in response, strolling to the edge of the dock.

                “No.”

                She’s going to scream. She doesn’t know how her mother didn’t kill her and Fergus as children.

                “What?” She dares to ask, and Sten meets her eyes with his stoic, steady gaze.

                “No,” He repeats. “I will not.”

                “Sten…why?” She sighs, shaking her head. _Why are you doing this to me?_

“I have other things to attend to.”

                “Like what?” She demands in disbelief.

                “I have to look for something.”

                “What _something_?”

                “Something I lost.”

                “ _Andraste’s ass_ , fine!” She cries, throwing her hands up in defeat as she spins on her heel to stomp down the dock. She waves for the Templar to pull the boat in, wanting – more than anything – to push him into the lake instead. “Just get us to the damn tower!”

* * *

                Demons. Maker’s breath, what is she thinking? Who offers to deal with an entire tower _full of demons_ by themselves? And Greagoir had argued! Argued and argued and _still_ she insisted. This is what her father meant when he said her stubbornness would get her into trouble. _Exactly this_.

                He likely hadn’t known about the demons, but the point remains.

                “Why did you let me do that?” She gasps suddenly, turning to Alistair and Leliana in panic as they walk the barren halls of the Circle. “I offer to deal with a tower full of _demons_ and you two just nod your heads and agree?”

                “Someone has to deal with them, no?” Leliana says, opening a door to what appears to be the apprentices’ rooms. “Oh dear.”

                “I’ve never seen a demon!” Lenora cries, taking in the room with despair. Beds are overturned, chests broken and belongings strewn about the floor. The floor looks singed, scorch marks defacing the stone. “How do you fight an ethereal being that can set you on fire in a second?” The very thought makes her sick to her stomach.

                “They can’t all set you on fire.” Alistair offers, as if it’s going to help. “Some of them seduce you, or eat you, or talk you to death…”

                “We’re talking about demons, Alistair. Not women.” Leliana chuckles, and they can hear him choke. His face practically glows pink in the dimly lit room, but Lenora can’t bring herself to feel sorry for him. At least they’re both uncomfortable now.

                Then she stumbles over something, catching herself on a bedframe, and can’t help the quiet gasp that stutters from her throat. It’s a foot, and she tries to stop her pulse from racing as she kneels down to find the rest of the body under the bed. The boy is young, too young to be broken and bloodied. Too young to look so absolutely terrified, even in death. And the more they look, the more bodies they find. Apprentices, locked in with the demons by the soldiers meant to protect them.

                She’s not sick anymore. She’s furious.

* * *

                “Well _that_ was uncomfortable.” Darian huffs, clutching his staff to his chest as he and Ariah reach the outskirts of town.

                “What was?” The elf says absentmindedly, squinting to see the other side of the Imperial Highway across the field.

                “Everyone was staring at us!” He throws his hands in the air, nearly sending his staff flying as Ariah cocks an eyebrow at him. “An entire village of refugees and every single one of them was watching us.”

                “Elf,” Ariah says slowly, pointing to herself. “Mage.” She turns her finger to Darian, and he purses his lips with a sigh. “We’re walking targets for hateful discrimination.”

                “But –”

                “You’re lucky you weren’t apprehended by the Templars. I told you to wear the armor.”

                “You got it off of a dead guy!”

                “Dead bandit.” She corrects, like it means anything. “And that didn’t stop you from putting it on.”

                “It was itchy. And it pinched.”

                “Oh,” Ariah scoffs. “The woes of wearing a dress for your entire life.”

                “It’s not a dress.” Darian says calmly, glancing up at the pillars of the Highway as they approach.

                “It looks like a dress.” Ariah teases.

                “It’s a robe.”

                “Which is a fancy word for dress.”

                “It’s not a –!”

                “Hello there, travelers!”

                The pair stop, startled to find a pair of dwarves smiling brightly at them from the Highway. There’s a wagon behind them, nearly empty. Traders then, if poor ones.

                “Hello,” Darian smiles back, climbing the ramp with no hesitation.

                “Is there anything I can help you with? You look like you’ve seen your share of trouble.”

                Darian looks back at Ariah, a question in his eye. He’s already suggested they head for Kinloch Hold; he grew up in the Tower, and the news they’d heard in town hadn’t been pretty. Talk of demons and maleficar, whispers of the Right of Annulment. Ariah had begrudgingly agreed, but if Darian thinks she’s sticking around afterwards, he’s sorely mistaken.

                They’ve deserted. Even if anyone survived the battle, deserters won’t be welcome amongst their ranks. They’ll be in the gallows before they can think to defend themselves. Now’s her chance; she’s free to find her clan and return _home_ – and she’s going to take it.

                Let someone else worry about the Blight. Let someone else deal with it. Let someone else risk their life fighting a losing battle.

                _Right?_

                “I don’t suppose there’s a chance you’re heading to the docks?” Darian smiles pleasantly. “By Kinloch Hold?” The boy claps his hands, and Ariah isn’t sure what to make of the pair.

                “Well,” The trader says. “My boy and I could certainly use some trained hands. The roads are dangerous with these darkspawn about.”

                “We have a deal, then?”

                “That we do.” The dwarf grasps Darian’s hand, giving it a firm shake. “The name’s Bodahn Feddic. This here’s my boy, Sandal.”

                “Hello!”

                “I’m Darian,” He motions back to Ariah, who shuffles her feet and looks away with no small amount of discomfort. “This is Ariah. We’ll keep you and Sandal safe.” The elf coughs, offering an awkward nod in affirmation before sighing. If she thought the pair of them were a strange sight before…

                A Dalish elf, a mage and _two_ dwarves travelling the Imperial Highway. She’s certain it can’t get stranger than this.

                “Enchantment!”

                She’s wrong.

* * *

                Wynne, Lenora observes, is a formidable woman. She knows better than to judge the woman by her age. She’s resilient, dependable – the Warden can’t say she isn’t relieved to have a bit of magic against the demons. The creatures of rage are the worst, glowing masses of magma that spit fire at them like a bonfire spits embers. The first one had caught her off guard, its heat irritating and tightening her burns. They still itch under her armor, and she wants nothing more than to strip it off and scratch until the skin blisters and tears. It isn’t a pretty thought, she knows, but the itch is unbearable.

                Wynne, though – Wynne is plenty bearable. She likes the mage, even. Certainly more pleasant than Morrigan, even in these unfortunate circumstances.

                “You know, I underwent the Joining with a mage from the Circle.” Alistair say to no one in particular as they make their way through the tower. This hall is surprisingly empty, leaving ample opportunity for Alistair’s silence-filling small talk.

                “Oh?” Wynne acknowledges. “Darian, perhaps?”

                “Yes!” Alistair smiles, and Lenora resists the urge to turn around and see it. “Did you know him?”

                “There was quite a controversy over his conscription.” The senior mage explains. “But beyond that, he was an excellent student. He was kind, seldom quiet.” She chuckles to herself, remembering a boy Lenora never knew. “I saw him at Ostagar. It’s a tragedy, truly.”

                “Yes, it is.” The smile is missing from Alistair’s voice now, and Lenora hates how keenly she feels its loss. She wants to comfort him, but it’s not the time, and she doesn’t know how. “He was a good man.”

                “Ferelden lost a lot of good people.” Leliana says quietly, and Lenora grasps the Sister’s arm in what she hopes is empathy. “But we will see that their sacrifices are not –” A loud thud behind a door at the end of the hall effectively cuts off Leliana’s thought. Lenora is quick to draw her sword, ghosting to the door as quietly as possible as the others follow suit. She can hear something rustling behind the wood, like parchments shuffling. She doesn’t think demons are in the habit of rifling through peoples’ things – but then, she doesn’t know all that much about demons.

                “That’s Irving’s study.” Wynne says quietly, and Lenora braces herself as she steadies a hand on the door.

                “Oh Sweet Creators,” A voice filters through the wood, and she’s almost certain it’s not a demon on the other side. She’s quick to open the door, and the sudden creak of the hinges is followed by a loud squeak and another thud as a small elven woman scurries behind a large trunk. Another mage, alone in the tower – and this one isn’t even hiding in a wardrobe.

                “It’s alright,” Lenora says hurriedly, sheathing her sword. She doesn’t want to frighten the girl more than they already have. “We’re here to help.”

                “I’m not a demon! Or a mage! No, wait, sorry, no, I _am_ a mage, but I’m not a blood mage! Or an abomination, or an apostate, or – by the – of course I’m not an _apostate_ – I just – oh Creators, please don’t kill me!” The elf quivers behind the open chest, and Alistair whistles by the door.

                “That was one breath.” He says. “I think that was all one, solid breath.”

                “We’re not going to kill you, Arryn.” Wynne insists patiently, and a blonde head pops up in relief.

                “Wynne?”

                “Andraste’s mercy, girl.”

                “You’re alive!” The mage pulls herself from the floor, a smile blooming on her lips as she clutches a large, leather satchel to her chest. “I thought everyone had died.”

                “Most of us managed to find shelter.” Wynne assures, approaching the girl. “What are you doing up here?”

                Arryn has the decency to look embarrassed as she takes in the state of the First Enchanter’s study. The room has been thoroughly mussed, and she chews her lip as she takes a deep breath.

                “I was looking for help.” She says, holding the bag a little tighter. She grips it as though it might protect her from the potential lecture she’s about to receive. “I was hoping Irving would be here, but he’s not, clearly. So I, you know, looked around…a little bit. I thought, maybe, that I could find something useful. A tome or a scroll or, anything, really – I mean, Uldred’s using _blood magic_ and the First Enchanter _has_ to have precautions against that, right? How could he not? So, you know, I just –”

                “We need to find the Litany of Adralla.” Lenora breaks the girl’s concentration, and she looks to the Warden with pursed lips. “Any chance you found that?”

                “Ah… _no_.”

                “Did you see Niall?” Wynne asks. “He must have come this way.”

                “Also no.” Arryn frowns. “I haven’t exactly been announcing my location. I mostly just assume that every sound I hear outside that door is a demon.”

                “Pretty safe bet.” Lenora says, sighing. “We’ve cleared the tower behind us. It should be safe for you to reach the others.”

                “Petra and Kinnon are in the Apprentices’ Quarters with the children.” Wynne guides her to the door with a warm smile. “Make sure they’re safe. We’ll come for you when it’s over.”

                “Wynne, I…”

                “We’ll come for you.” She repeats, and Arryn furrows her brow with a nod. She looks like she’s holding back tears, and Lenora hates that she knows exactly what the girl is feeling. Her home is overrun by monsters, her friends are dying – the Tower may not be on fire, but nothing will be the same here after this. This place, like Highever, is a fortress under siege, but this time?

                This time Lenora has the power to do something about it.

* * *

                Ariah doesn’t know what she’s doing. She doesn’t know why she agreed to come this far, to willfully approach a tower claimed to be overrun by demons. She should be on the other side of the country. She should be finding her clan. She _should not be_ focusing all of her energy into not murdering the most infuriating man in Thedas.

                “Is that smoke?” He asks. “Do you see that? It hasn’t even been a year and they’ve already set the place on fire.”

                “For the fourth time,” Ariah sighs, willing her patience to extend itself. “There’s no smoke.”

                “I’m just saying.” Darian continues. “It wouldn’t surprise me. That cloud looks awfully smoky.”

                Something rustles in the bushes nearby, and Ariah grabs the chance to dislodge herself from the conversation. She takes a sharp turn, heading towards the trees as Darian stumbles over her departure.

                “Where are you going? Ariah?” The elf doesn’t answer, opting to ready her bow instead. “What are you doing? The tower is that way.” He points towards the lake, but Ariah throws a hand out, motioning for him to stay where he is as she draws an arrow. The rustling grows closer, and the disturbance sounds big. Bigger than a fox, or a hare anyway. It’s either a threat or it’s dinner, and she’s ready either way.

                  She’s _not_ ready for a dog to leap from the bushes.

                “Oh, good thing you were prepared.” Darian laughs, earning an irritated glare. “He looks _killer_.”

                She offers him her favourite finger before returning her arrow to its quiver. The dog jumps about in excitement, sniffing at her legs before startling her with a sharp bark. She watches the hound suspiciously, something itching in the back of her brain as it trots over to the wagon.

                “It is killer,” Bodahn offers, patting Sandal’s arm as he reaches out for the dog. “That’s a Mabari hound, that is.”

                “I’m well aware, thank you.” Ariah sighs as the creature makes its way back to her again, crouching down to meet the dog eye-to-eye. “One of the recruits at Ostagar had one. With everything we heard in Lothering,” She glances back to Darian, and the mirth has faded from his face. “Well, I doubt he escaped Ostagar.”

                The hound nudges her hand with its nose, wagging its stump of a tail and whining softly into her skin. She indulges the beast, patting its head as she remembers the sight of the Mabari storming the field. She thinks of Lenora, and Fang, and hates the tightness in her chest that follows. Out of all of them, the hound really had been the most tolerable.

                “He seems awfully cuddly for a trained murderer.” Darian notes.

                “Perhaps the lass just has a way with the beasts.” Bodahn smiles, but another thought strikes Ariah.

                “I thought Mabari only listened to their masters.” She says, the kennel master’s words floating in her ears. “Why is this one wandering around by itself?”

                Is it possible that this dog had come from Ostagar? If they escaped, surely a hound could manage, no? Maybe it recognizes her – maybe it’s the one she’d helped with that silly flower. It can’t be Fang. He wouldn’t be out here, not without Lenora. That dog wouldn’t leave her, Ariah knows. He’d have died with his mistress without a second thought.

                “Why do you all have to look the same?” She inquires softly, searching the Mabari’s eyes for…something. “How am I supposed to know if –”

                “There you are, you _insufferable_ creature.” All eyes fly to the trees, widening as a disgruntled woman breaks from the shadows. She stops upon meeting her audience, but wastes no time in ushering the dog back to her side. “Spoiled beast,” She spits. “Get over here.”

                The dog barks happily, despite the malice in the woman’s voice, and trots over to her with no hesitation. Ariah, for all the absurdities of the last few days, can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

                “You’re the witch from the Wilds.” She says, trying to remember a name to match the unimpressed glower now aimed her way.

                “And you are the Warden recruit from Ostagar.” She rebukes, raising a delicate eyebrow. “What is your point?”

                “What are you doing out here?” Ariah asks, ignoring Darian as he chokes and sputters some incoherent words behind her. “We’re a far way from your hut.”

                “’Tis not my decision where we stop.” Morrigan grumbles in return, waving the dog’s excited bouncing away as she glances to Darian. He manages to get a few words out about checking on the wagon, but Ariah can’t be bothered by his unsurprising ineloquence.

                “We?” She asks. She doesn’t know why she cares.

                Well, she does. But she doesn’t want to dwell on it. 

                “Indeed.” The witch answers simply.

                “That’s Fang, isn’t it?”

                “I do not care what its name is.” Morrigan rolls her eyes, grimacing as the hound pushes its nose against her leg.

                “No,” Ariah tries again. “I mean…it’s – _he’s_ – he’s hers.”

                “I’m sure Lenora will be thrilled to know that you remembered the dog’s name, but not hers.” Morrigan scoffs, but Ariah doesn’t care. She’s caught up and twisted and so tense she might just burst.

                “She’s alive.”

                “You believed her dead, I take it?”

                “We believed them all dead.” The elf breathes, trying to regain some semblance of sense. Her heart constricts in conflict; they aren’t alone anymore. It isn’t just her and Darian – but her clan, her family…

                “They likely will be by the end of this ridiculous crusade.” Morrigan says.

                “They?” Ariah pushes.

                “The woman who belongs to this _beast_ and the bumbling idiot.”

                _Bumbling idiot?_ “Alistair?”

                Morrigan purses her lips in a scowl at his name, but Darian seems to rematerialize in an instant.

                “He’s alive?” The relief that washes over the mages face almost brings a smile to Ariah’s face. Almost.

                “Ah,” Morrigan sighs. “You’ve had the unfortunate displeasure of knowing him, then.”

                “We went through the Joining together.” He grins, a laugh in his throat. “What are they doing here?”

                “They believe they can stop the Blight with those crumbling treaties you made such a fuss about.” Morrigan turns to Ariah, but she’s still trying to process everything. Fang plops himself beside her, leaning into her with enough weight to shake her from her disbelief.

                “They’re here to recruit the mages, then?” She asks, trying to keep her balance as Fang pushes. She doesn’t have to wonder why they’d leave the witch behind. It isn’t a difficult conclusion to draw.

                “They wish it were so simple.” Morrigan sighs, not bothering to conceal her indifference. “The livestock has been misbehaving. Something about demons.”

                “Demons.” Darian repeats, running a hand through his hair. “Oh demons are worse than fire. This is not good. Really, really not good. And they’re up there alone? Oh sweet Maker…”

                “Not alone,” The witch waves him off. “They took the Chantry sister and the qunari with them.”

                The silence that follows is long and incredibly uncomfortable. Ariah’s sure she must have misheard, there’s no way –

                “They brought who?”

* * *

                Lenora has seen depictions of abominations. Magisters so deformed and twisted, it was as though their bodies had been dowsed in flame. Their faces so mutilated they’d become unrecognizable as men. Monsters, by all accounts. She’d hoped to never see one in the flesh.  

                She’d hoped a lot of things.

                “Why do you fight?” It drawls slowly, tilting its head in curiosity. She doesn’t know how her friends are faring – she can’t bring herself to turn around. She tries to look at Niall, at the poor mage lying helpless at the demon’s feet, but her gaze is fixed on the creature. Its voice is all she can hear, swirling in her head like the poison in her veins. “You deserve more.” It looks at her, through her, into her. She can’t break away, she can’t speak – she can feel herself slipping from her control. “You deserve a rest.”

                Her head aches and her limbs are numb. Everything is spinning but the demon holds its gaze. It’s all she can see – the only point of focus while the world fades around her. Its stare is menacing, terrifying in its intensity, but the words are quiet. The words are soft and comforting and _peaceful._ They remind her of home, of her family, of her life before Duncan and Ostagar and _Howe._ She thinks of Highever, and the spinning stops.

                The demon speaks, and she lets everything slip away.

                “The world will go on without you.”

* * *

> _the first of the maker's children watched across the veil_
> 
> _and grew jealous of the life_
> 
> _they could not feel, could not touch._
> 
> _in blackest envy were the demons born._
> 
> **_\- erudition 2:1_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Arryn Surana! Don't worry, we haven't seen the last of her. Much like Darian, she grows on you. Like fungus.


	7. Chapter VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenora gets attacked by children. Ariah wants to attack one particular child.

 

> _here lies the abyss, the well of all souls._
> 
> _from these emerald waters doth life begin anew._
> 
> _come to me, child, and i shall embrace you._
> 
> _in my arms lies eternity._
> 
> _- **andraste 14:11**_

* * *

Her blankets are tangled around her legs when she finally wakes. The sun shines through her window, filtering through her eyelids as she rouses herself from sleep. Fang is curled into her stomach, his heavy head resting on her arm. She mumbles incoherently, formless words interrupted by a yawn as she stretches her free arm and kicks her legs free of the sheets.

                Her curtains billow softly, almost ethereal in the pale morning light. Fang shifts beside her, licking her fingers as she wriggles her limb free. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, ignoring her hound’s sleepy huff, and brushes the hair from her face. He’s content to return to sleep, stretching to encompass her vacant spot as she sits up. She can’t help the smile that tugs at her lips, leaning down to plant a soft kiss between his ears before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

                The stone is cold beneath her feet, but the sun is warm and she takes a moment to enjoy the light before dressing. The dress is simple, comfortable – the worn leather of her armor holds no appeal for her today. Once fitted with a pair of sturdy shoes, she returns to her bed, sitting on the edge as Fang stretches. She tugs at her hair, braiding it over her shoulder as the hound verbalizes his displeasure at being awake.

                “Oh, because your life is so hard.” She chuckles, patting his chest as he grumbles at her. “Come on, then. Big baby.”

                Fang follows her, albeit begrudgingly, as she makes her way down the hall. She stops at the stairs, knowing the furry, childish _mess_ will want to be carried. He simply trots on, however, taking the steps without a problem. It’s an odd sight, but her back certainly won’t complain at the development. She offers greetings to the staff as she passes, everyone responding with the same ‘good morning, my lady’. The castle is unusually quiet, but she’s grateful for the peace.

                Her mother is in the atrium when she turns the corner, a book in her hands as she reads to Oren. The boy’s eyes widen when he sees Lenora, and he jumps from Eleanor’s lap with a cry of excitement.

                “Auntie!” He smiles, running to grab at her hand as Fang barks happily. “Will you teach me to swordfight now? Please?”

                “She just woke up, darling.” Eleanor chides. “You can play after breakfast.”

                “It’s not _playing_.” Oren huffs, pouting at his grandmother.

                “After breakfast.”

                “Then we have to eat now.” He states, tugging at Lenora’s hand. “Come on, then. Breakfast time.”

                “Oren.” Eleanor chuckles, but the boy is unrelenting.

                “It’s alright,” Lenora says. “We’ll find something to eat, just the two of us.” She smiles down to Oren, and the mischievous grin that tugs at his lips reminds her all too much of Fergus. She leans down to kiss her mother’s cheek, then Oren’s pulling her down the hall with a strength one wouldn’t expect from a child. They’ve almost made it past the main hall when her father rounds the corner, a slice of cheese halfway to his mouth.

                “Good morning, Pup!” He grins, taking a bite of the cheese he no doubt stole from the kitchens when Nan wasn’t looking.

                “Helping ourselves, are we?” Lenora teases, watching as Fang plants himself in front of Bryce.

                “Same as you, I expect.” He retorts, holding the snack up defensively as Fang stares him down.

                “We’re on a quest.” Oren states matter-of-factly. “It’s different.”

                “A quest?” Bryce gasps dramatically, plopping the last bit of cheese in his mouth. “Well you’re in good company. Your aunt has taken on many a quest in her time.”

                Lenora laughs and shakes her head, but her father isn’t quite finished.

                “She vanquished the darkspawn, slayed the archdemon, saved the country! No one is better suited to aid you in your adventure.” He ruffles Oren’s hair before giving Lenora’s cheek a quick peck. She barely registers his affections however, his words still sitting unsettled in her brain.

                “I – I did what?” She blinks, frowning at her father as he pats Fang’s head. The hound is disinterested, given the sudden lack of food, but accepts the attention nonetheless.

                “Are you feeling well?” Bryce asks, cocking an eyebrow with a small smile. “Still waking up?”

                “I…yes,” She shakes her head. “Yes, I must be.” But she would remember something like _killing the archdemon,_ and she has no recollection of such a feat. She doesn’t remember slaying an old god and she certainly doesn’t remember saving the country.

                “Come on, Auntie!” Oren insists. He’s tugging at her hand again, but she feels rooted in place. She suddenly feels off-balance, like she’s taken a blow to the head.

                “Where’s Fergus?”

                Bryce eyes her quizzically, but answers her question regardless.

                “Probably upstairs, with Oriana.”

                _No,_ she thinks. _No, that’s not right._

“What’s the matter, Pup?” He presses a hand to her forehead, the other on her cheek as she shakes her head. “You’re burning up. Maybe you should see –”

                _Burning up._ She can see flames, feel the heat against her skin as though she’s standing in the fire. Her hip burns through the fabric of her dress, flesh tightening and twisting as she gasps at the pain of it. She’s quick to pull herself away, from her father and Oren, only for the sensation to follow. She can see the stone cracking above them, crumbling apart one moment and whole again the next. Smoke billows, blurring her vision as it flickers in and out of existence.

                Anger rises in her chest, Rendon Howe’s face in her mind as she grasps as memories just outside of her reach.

                “What’s the matter, Pup?” Bryce asks, taking a careful step towards his daughter. She steps back again at the movement, agony written in the lines of her face.

                “Get away from me.” She says quietly, not wanting to look at him. She doesn’t know what she’ll see if she does, but it won’t be her father. Not really.

                “Auntie?” Oren whispers. “What’s the matter?”

                “She’s just tired.” Bryce assures, patting the boy’s head. “Come, darling. You deserve a rest.” He takes another step, but the walls are still crumbling and her skin still burns.

                “ _Get away from me_.” She growls this time, risking a glance at the man only to find his expression shifting. Soft and calm one moment, furious the next. His lips twisting in a sneer, his jaw clenched. She’s never seen anger like this, not in her father’s eyes.

                “Foolish child.” He spits at her, blood pooling in his eyes like tears. She watches a red stain seep into his clothes, spreading from the wound in his chest like a wave. She remembers now – remembers finding him in the larder, bleeding, begging her to go. She remembers him dying.

                “What are you?” She wants to cry, to fall to her knees and scream until her throat is raw.

                “Is this what you want?” It’s not Bryce’s voice any longer. “I offer you peace, but only war and death will satisfy you!”

                A white light pulses from him, blinding her with its intensity as she cries out. She can feel her center of gravity shift, spinning around her like she’s falling, despite her feet planted firmly on the ground. When she manages to open her eyes again, the halls of her home have been replaced by a dark, miasmic island. Everything, even the ground, shifts around her. Nothing is static, and she realizes with a start that she recognizes its description.

                “The Fade,” She whispers to herself, fear and panic rising in her chest. She shouldn’t be here – she _can’t_ be here, not like this.

                “Try to leave.” The voice seethes behind her, and she spins to find the source. Instead of a demon, however, she’s met with bodies. Lifeless and unmoving, they stare up at her from the ground. The sight wrenches a shuddering cry from her lungs, Alistair’s dead eyes boring through her.

                _It’s not real,_ she tells herself. _You’re in the Fade._

“I _dare_ you.” Leliana’s lips move but the voice isn’t hers. Lenora reaches for her sword, surprised to find the weapon once again strapped to her hip. She realizes with a start that she’s back in her armor, and decides definitively that she hates the Fade.

                _This is only a nightmare_.

                “You belong to me, now.” The voice speaks again, softly, but her companions are unmoving. Lenora turns again, finally coming face to face with the demon that’s so eager to play with her mind. Her blade pointed at the demon’s throat, Lenora grinds out a response.

                “I belong to no one.”

                The horned creature watches her almost lovingly, deceptively warm eyes shining a bright yellow.

                “Don’t you want to be happy?” It purrs, raising its arms as if to embrace her, despite the sword against its skin. “I can give you the greatest happiness you’ve ever felt. Don’t you want to see your family again?”

                Lenora presses the blade forward, knowing better than to listen to the demon’s false promises.

                “I can _give them to you_.”

                But she wants to listen, to accept, more than anything. She’d gladly spend the rest of her days in ignorant bliss with the people she loves. The people she’s lost. But this isn’t her home, and they’re not her family. It’s not bliss if she’s not ignorant.

                Then she thinks of her companions, and a thunderous anger swells in her chest. They’re here somewhere – she refuses to believe they lie behind her. The demon didn’t kill her, not when it could control her. It wouldn’t kill them either.

                “You can give nothing more than illusions.” The demon’s skin is surprisingly thin as Lenora thrusts her sword through it with clenched teeth. She wonders if it’s truly blood pouring over the metal, but a part of her – the part that wants to pretend none of this is really happening – doesn’t want to know. All that remains now is to find a way out, if there is one.

                She turns to search the small island, but she doesn’t get far. She thought they’d have disappeared with the demon, but her friends, or their likenesses, still stare up at her. Their lips move silently, mouthing the same words over and over. Then, slowly, the words become soft whispers, hushed mumblings, until finally she can make them out.

                “ _Try to leave…_ ”

                “No,” She frowns, shaking her head as she looks back to where the demon still lies dead. “How –?”

                “ _I **dare**_ _you_.”

                The mantra continues as she tries to focus on something else. Anything else. She bites her lip as she looks for a way out, trying to keep the tears at bay. They’re not real, she knows. Her friends are alive, somewhere in this prison – but the thought –

                “ _Try to leave._ ”

                There must be something out of the ordinary, something that doesn’t _fit_. But the whole damn place is a patchwork of mismatched pieces. The only thing that seems to be rooted in place is her.

                “ _I dare you_.”

                She squeezes her eyes shut, Alistair’s golden eyes still burning in her mind. She grips her sword tightly, trying to concentrate, trying to ease the pain stirring in her chest. She can’t afford to linger here, not with…well, _everything_.

                When she opens her eyes again, they fall on a small stone pedestal across the island. She cocks an eyebrow, trying to remember if it’s been there all along.

                _Stop thinking. Just do._

                So she does. She runs to the pedestal, blocking out the demon’s threat as she passes the bodies so bent on tormenting her. She grasps the stone roughly, ensuring it’s truly there, as a faint light pulsing at her touch. She can feel an energy, something unnatural coursing through the stone as she takes in the glyphs carved into its surface. She has no idea what the pedestal does; all she can do is pray that it doesn’t summon more demons. She takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and carefully brushes a finger over one of the runes.

                “One way to find out.”

* * *

                “Shouldn’t we be up there? Helping?”

                “Wynne told us to stay here.” Petra says, again, as Arryn paces around the room.

                “We’re letting strangers handle our problem.” The elf shakes her head. “And it’s a _big_ problem, in case you missed it. Kind of our biggest problem yet, and that’s saying a lot.”

                “Arryn…”

                “Do we even know who those people are? Why are they here in the first place?”

                “They’re Grey Wardens.” Petra provides, sighing when Arryn swivels around to look at her in shock.

                “ _Wardens_? Then…”

                “Arryn, _no_ –”

                “They’re here to ask for our aid! They came for help and instead we’ve sent them into a tower full of demons! By the Creators, what if they die?” She’s worked herself into a spiral again, and Petra doesn’t know if she has the energy to pull her out of it. “What if they die and there’s no one to stop the Blight? Ferelden could be _destroyed,_ Petra! We have to help!”

                “We can’t just leave the children here.” The older mage says, glancing over to the apprentices huddled in the corner. “And we can’t bring them with us. All we can do is _stay here_ and hope Wynne succeeds.”

                “I can’t just _hope_.” Arryn insists, distressed. “What if they don’t succeed? What if we’re waiting to die? What if there’s something I can do to help?”

                Petra opens her mouth to answer, but really, she knows better.

                “That’s it, then. I’m going.”

                “Arryn!”

                “You stay here – keep them safe. I have to find Wynne.”

                And then she’s off, back down the hall and into the heart of the tower.

                “Maker watch over you, girl.” Petra sighs, closing her eyes in a quiet prayer. “I know you won’t do it for yourself.”

* * *

                He’s playing with the kids – one hanging from each arm – when she crosses his mind again. He can’t remember the last time he saw Lenora, or even the last time they spoke, but it isn’t unusual for his thoughts to wander to her. Where she is, what she’s doing, how she is – he should write to her, he decides. After dinner, perhaps.

                One of the boys latches onto his leg, trying to weigh him down as he stomps around the room. He wonders, vaguely and without any intention or motivation, if Lenora likes children. He bets she does. Not that it matters to him or anything.

                Someone knocks on the door, distracting the kids as Alistair cocks an eyebrow. It’s rare that they receive visitors here – travellers are few and far between. Still, he shakes off the children attached to his limbs and makes his way to the door. The hinges are a little stiff, but he pulls it open with minimal effort, surprised to find the subject of his musings suddenly standing before him.

                “Lenora!” He grins, pulling her into a hug. She seems a little shocked at first, and he wonders if he’s gone too far, but she’s quick to return the gesture.

                “Alistair,” She breathes. “Thank the Maker.”

                “I was just thinking about you!” He shakes his head, pulling back to look at her. “Isn’t that a marvelous coincidence?”

                She’s looking behind him, scanning his home anxiously as her hands slide from his back to clasp at his elbows.

                “Come on,” She says, trying to pull him from the doorway. “We have to –” She’s cut off, distracted as the kids run by in a flurry. He calls for them to be careful, but the look on Lenora’s face is less than jovial as she releases his arms. She’s frowning, that cute crinkle forming between her brows as she stares at Goldanna’s children like she’s not quite sure what they are. Maybe she doesn’t like kids after all? He tries to ignore the unexpected disappointment at the thought.

                “Are you going to introduce us to your friend, Alistair?” Goldanna asks from the hall, and Alistair startles back to reality.

                “Oh, of course. How rude of me.” He sputters apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. Lenora, for some reason he can’t fathom, looks like she doesn’t even know where she is. _She_ came _here_ , didn’t she? “Ah, this is Goldanna, my sister. These are her children.” Then something settles in her features, that little crease easing slightly as her brows reach for her hairline.

                “You…have a sister?” She asks, and he can’t remember if he’s ever actually spoken to her of Goldanna. He must have, surely.

                “Half-sister, technically.” Goldanna corrects, a soft smile on her lips as the kids run past again. “We share the same mother.”

                “Isn’t that wonderful?” Alistair grins, wishing the soft smile on Lenora’s lips would reach her eyes. She’s sad, he thinks, but he doesn’t know why.

                “Is your friend going to stay for supper?”

                Lenora opens her mouth, but Alistair is quicker.

                “Oh, you will, won’t you?” He pleads, taking her hand in both of his. It’s surprisingly warm, despite the chill in the air. “Please say you’ll stay.”

                “I – we – uh,” She stutters, staring down at their hands. She’s acting so strangely; he wishes he knew what was bothering her so. “I…I can’t. I – _we_ – we have to go. There’s a Blight to stop, remember?”

                “I…” He frowns, something dislodging in his mind. He can’t quite place the feeling of unease, and he pulls his hands back defensively. “I don’t want to go.” He admits, averting his gaze with a shameful shrug.

                “Alistair –” She starts, but he doesn’t think he can bear what he might see in her eyes if he lets her finish.

                “I thought being a Grey Warden would make me happy.” He tries to explain. “But it didn’t, not really.” He offers an apologetic smile – a small, sad thing – before glancing back at Goldanna. “This does.”

                Then Lenora grabs his hand again, surprising him. He looks back to her, and she meets his eyes with hard determination.

                “How did you get here?” She demands, and he balks at the ridiculous question.

                “What?” He almost laughs, but she looks as serious as ever.

                “Try to remember, Alistair. Think.”

                He huffs, arching an eyebrow. Her gaze is steady though, and he can’t bring himself to look away. He wants, if only for a moment, to kiss away the apprehension lingering in the corner of her mouth. Then, to appease her, he tries to give an answer to her question.

                Then it’s his turn to frown, and he holds her hand a little tighter.

                “I…I can’t seem to…”

                “ _I’m real_.” She says with conviction, green eyes burning as she squeezes his hand in reassurance. “I’m the only thing that’s real.”

                “The demon, in the tower…” He can remember bits, pieces of something far away, but he can’t put them together.

                “This is all a trick.” She presses. “We’re in the Fade.”

                “Enough,” Goldanna scoffs, but he doesn’t want to turn around. He keeps his eyes on Lenora – he’s afraid he’ll lose what little he’s reclaimed if he looks away. His world is crumbling down around him, but she’s steady. She’s real, her hand in his is _real_. He tries to focus on that. “My brother belongs with his family.”

                “I agree.” Lenora says, and he swears his heart skips a beat. Then she’s releasing his hand, however, and reaching instead for her blade. The metal sings as she pulls it from its sheath, and Goldanna cries out in anger behind him.

                “He belongs here!” She shouts, but it’s not her voice anymore. It’s deeper, ethereal and distant. “ _He is ours_!”

                That, he concludes, definitely sounds like something a demon would say. He’s not sure how long he’s been wearing his armor, but his sword is in his hand before he can dwell too long on how it got there.

                “Why does this keep happening?” He asks incredulously, gaping as a growl escapes Goldanna’s throat. Or, the demon’s throat, he supposes. He’s quick to lunge forward, not hesitating to strike at the imitation of his sister. His blade meets flesh, eliciting a wounded shriek as the creature retaliates. Its pale arm swings out, and with a flick of its wrist, his sword is sent clattering across the ground.          

                Not the best start to a fight, if he’s being honest.

                “ _I would rather see you dead, than free!_ ”

                “Now that’s just excessive.” Alistair grumbles, heaving his shield up as he takes a step back. He glances quickly to Lenora, only to find that his front door has disappeared. His entire house, as he looks at it, has vanished. Instead, they stand on an island, shifting all around them. It’s uniquely Fade-esqe. He’s never going to live this down.

                A chorus of groans interrupt his thoughts, and he remembers with a start that there’s a demon not ten feet away from him. His sword is out of reach, but if he can –

                “Undead!” Lenora shouts suddenly, and he groans at their growing disadvantage. “Of course the children are undead. Nothing is easy in this fucking place!” He has to wonder exactly what she’s been doing here. Had she learned how to travel the Fade? Had the demon tried to trick her as well? “Here!”

                He’s startled, but catches her sword with ease as she throws it to him. He nods his thanks, trying to ignore the fact that she’s now unarmed as the demon advances on him again. It still looks like Goldanna, but the disguise doesn’t bother him as much as he thought. He knows how to fight a human. He knows how to _kill_ a human.

                He starts forward, shield up, and the demon lashes out. A wave of magic hits metal, and he focuses his energy on dampening its strength as he thrusts his shield out. He knocks the demon back, stunning it long enough to slice into its gut. He pulls Lenora’s sword back to him, not wanting to be disarmed again, and risks a quick glance back at his friend.

                She’s outnumbered, but she doesn’t look to be struggling. She’s retrieved his sword, he notes with relief, and seems to be handling the corpses with a skill he really shouldn’t be admiring right at _this_ moment.

                The demon growls again, alerting him to its incoming attack, and he meets the advance with his shield. It’s tough, he’ll admit, as blood spills from its gut. Its magic is formidable enough, but he hasn’t forgotten his Templar training, even here. He feigns a shield bash, catching the creature off guard as he lunges forward with his blade instead. He sticks it through the gut again, bringing his shield crashing into its face to add insult to injury. It sputters in a rage, stumbling back with a cry only for the sword to silence it. The blade sings across the demon’s throat, thick blood spraying from the wound as ‘Goldanna’ finally slumps to the ground.

                Alistair doesn’t spare the demon another glance, turning to see only two corpses remaining. Lenora is actively engaged with one, but the other – by the Maker, the other –!

                He runs, but he’s not fast enough. One corpse falls, but the other attacks from behind. He hears the sword hit her armor, metal against metal, followed by a cry of surprise. It’s all he can do to dispatch the corpse, sword sliding through its torso far too easily. It practically crumbles, falling to his feet as he pulls the blade back.

                When he looks up again, he’s met with startled green eyes. They search his face, scanning his body before softening in relief.

                “Thank you.” She says, offering his sword back to him with a tired smile. He trades gladly, sheathing the weapon as he looks her over. His free hand moves immediately to her hip, where he’d seen the blade hit, and examines her armor. It’s damaged – the plate has been displaced – but it’s unbroken, and he sighs in overwhelming relief.

                “Couldn’t have you done in by a child, could I?” He says with a grin, but he really doesn’t know what he would have done had she been injured. The panic that had overcome him just now – well, that’s something he’ll have to address eventually, isn’t it?

                _Really not the best time for feelings, Alistair,_ he thinks snidely.

                “Several children, actually.” Lenora quips, and they take in the bodies littered at their feet. The disgust that twists her features is almost comical, but he knows better than to laugh. She’s expressed her hatred of the undead before – he hopes, for her sake, that they won’t be a recurring problem.

                “Thanks,” He coughs, capturing her attention again. “For coming to – whoa, wait – you’re –!” She’s fading, or he is, flickering in and out of existence. His stomach is twisted into knots, his heart in his throat as he tries to reach for her. His hand can’t find purchase however, and the panic grows.

                “It’s okay,” She rushes, smiling so reassuringly he _almost_ believes her. “I’ll find you. We’re going to get out of here, Alistair. I promise.”

                He hopes that’s true, even as the world slips away around him. Hell, he hopes a lot of things.

* * *

                They’re asleep. Or dead. She really hopes they’re asleep. They’re all just… _slumped_ …on the floor. Niall is, well – they’re not _all_ asleep. She says a quick prayer for him, then moves to kneel beside Wynne. Her chest is rising, ever so slightly, and she tries to think of something – anything – that she can do to help. She’s running through a list of spells in her head when the brunette woman jolts awake.

                Arryn lets out a startled squeak, falling over as the Warden sits up, head between her knees.

                “Oh…Maker…” She groans, looking a little more nauseous than Arryn is comfortable with.

                “Are you alright?” She asks, and the woman’s head snaps up.

                “Arryn, right?” She frowns. “What are you doing here?”

                “I came to help.” The mage answers, standing up and brushing herself off. Wynne starts to stir, as do the others, and she breathes a sigh of relief.

                “You should be with the others, where it’s safe.” The woman gets to her feet, rolling her shoulders and stretching her back. The others come to around them, but Arryn shakes her head.

                “I couldn’t sit there and be useless. What if you had died up here? No one would have known! Not that I don’t have faith in your abilities, you know, but there were _a lot_ of demons, and I just – well, I…” She purses her lips, setting her shoulders and taking a breath. “I wanted to help. I _want_ to help.”

                The brunette kneels beside Niall, ruffling through is robes. Arryn gapes, not quite believing that this woman is _stealing_ from a dead man. Then she procures a scroll, however, and Arryn has an idea what’s happening.

                “The Litany?” She gasps. “He found it?”

                “You still want to help?” The Warden inquires, a strength set in the line of her shoulders than Arryn hasn’t quite seen before. She nods her affirmation; she can’t do nothing. Not after Darian. Not after _Jowan_. “Good.” The Warden says, and deposits the Litany in Arryn’s hand like she has any business holding it. “We’re going to need it.”

* * *

                “Ariah, look! They have cake!”

                “By the – don’t _eat that_. You don’t know where it’s been.”

                Darian cocks an eyebrow at her skeptically, crossing his arms.

                “It’s a _cake_.” He says, like that negates her point. “I’m not a child.”

                “Just yesterday you were in awe of a particularly tall tree.”

                “I spent my life in a stone tower in the middle of a lake!” He defends. “We didn’t have trees.”

                “Or cake, apparently.”

                “Come on, just a slice.”

                “Would you focus, please?” Ariah sighs, groaning when a bit of pastry finds its way to the mage’s lips, regardless. “We have to figure out how we’re going to deal with all of this.”

                “Well, they’ve clearly figured _something_ out.” He shrugs in response. “They wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

                “And what if they don’t come back?” She insists. “We can’t just assume they’re going to walk out of a tower full of demons alive. We have to get across the lake ourselves.”

                Morrigan watches the two Wardens bicker amongst themselves from across the camp. Her fire is warm, and well away from the bothersome pair now blundering around. The merchant accompanying them has situated his wagon at the edge of the clearing, promising not to bother anyone.

                How had she managed to get herself into this? It had started with watching over the blasted dog, and now she’s babysitting two fledging Wardens and a pair of dwarves. Fang, at least, had long since abandoned her side. Now he’s pacing the perimeter of the camp as if his mistress is about to break through the trees. In truth, Morrigan has no doubt the odd group will eventually make their way back. She’s nowhere near lucky enough to be free of them just yet.

                Then, as if some divine being has decided she deserves more agony, the bushes at the far end of the camp rustle. The elf is quick to ready an arrow, training it on the newcomers as an exasperated shout comes from the trees.

                “Oh, come on!” Lenora cries, her shield up in defense and her sword ready. “I did _not_ survive the bloody Fade just to be murdered in my own camp!”

                It’s silent for a moment as the two parties register each other. Minds work and the awkward stillness stretches as Ariah balks. Had they done it? Had they actually purged the Circle of demons? She returns the arrow to its quiver as the pair simply stare at each other. Ariah is acutely aware of the fact that she and Darian have had time to come to terms with their survival, but Lenora and Alistair are just now realizing they’re not alone. She wants to say something, anything, but Lenora’s expression leaves her at a loss for words.

                The human woman is staring at her in shock and confusion, no doubt wondering whether she’s actually _escaped_ the Fade. She looks, if Ariah has to guess, like she’s on the verge of breaking. She had truly believed they were alone. Alone in surviving, in battling the Blight, in raising an army. She’d believed they were alone in carrying the weight of an entire country on their shoulders.

                _And she was going to carry it anyway?_

* * *

> _though stung with a hundred arrows,_
> 
> _though suffering from ailments both great and small,_
> 
> _his heart was strong, and he moved on._
> 
> _**\- unknown**  
>  _


	8. Chapter VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenora worries, Ariah observes, and Darian almost regrets eating that cake.

 

 

 

> _the work of man and woman,_
> 
> _by hubris of their making._
> 
> _the sorrow a blight unbearable._
> 
> _- **threnodies 7:11**_

* * *

“She’s alright, though? She’s safe?” He wrings his fingers nervously, anxious upon learning the Circle’s fate. After Jowan, he – well, he can’t exactly say he’s surprised it was almost lost to blood magic. No, what surprises him is just how many mages were willing to kill their fellows for their perceived ‘freedom’.

                Wynne grasps Darian’s arm, her eyes as warm as he remembers, despite everything they’ve endured.

                “She is safe.” She assures, and Darian feels lighter than he has in a long time. He doesn’t think he could bear it, losing Arryn. “She’s helping the senior mages try to restore some order. She’s very brave, your friend.”

                “And surprisingly stubborn.” He nods. “And ridiculously strong for someone so tiny.”

                “Scared of a girl?” Alistair interjects with a grin, passing by with his bedroll as they pack up camp.

                “Yes.” Darian states seriously, and Wynne can’t help the chuckle that escapes her lips.

                “Good,” The blond Warden resorts to a whisper, grin gone. He leans in, eyes shifting around the clearing like he’s about to divulge a dangerous secret. “You should be. I’ve never in my life been surrounded by so many people who could so easily kill me. And I trained with Templars.”

                “They wouldn’t, though.” Darian chances a hopeful glance at Wynne, but her coy smile does little to reassure him. “Right? They wouldn’t kill us?”

                “Most of them.” Alistair shrugs, and Darian honestly can’t tell if the man is joking. Then he’s off, back to packing up camp like he hasn’t just informed his friend that he might be murdered while he sleeps.

                “Oh,” The mage grimaces, shaking his head. “Oh, oh, oh, I do _not_ feel well.”

                Wynne only laughs. He really can’t blame her.

                Alistair, for his part, figures two out of five aren’t the _worst_ odds. Morrigan would _definitely_ murder him, and he’s not positive about Ariah, but better to be safe than sorry.

                He passes Lenora, in the throes of what looks to be a rather serious conversation with the aforementioned elf. Likely discussing their respective survival, if he has to guess. He’s not sure how amicable their relationship was prior to Ostagar; they weren’t exactly ecstatic to see each other. She doesn’t look upset, though, and the tension in his chest eases slightly. He should talk to her, he knows. He _needs_ to talk to her. After what happened in the Fade, with Goldanna and…well, he really should explain himself.

                Maker, there’s a lot of things he should explain.

                He places his bedroll in Bodahn’s wagon, tucking it in with their other equipment before offering thanks to the dwarven pair. He doesn’t know much about them, but they’ve offered to haul the party’s packs for them, and his back is grateful for it.

                “Alistair?”

                “Hmm?” He turns to her, wondering faintly if she can read his thoughts. She’d been so preoccupied with Ariah just moments ago; had she sensed he wanted to speak with her? He thinks of a nug carved out of cheese, just to see, but her expression doesn’t change. He lets it go, for now.

                “You…ah, you haven’t seen that cake, have you?”

                “No?” He frowns, and she bites her lip anxiously as she glances around the clearing. Fang lies by the extinguished fire, his head resting on the presumably empty pastry box. The sad, soggy thing is squished under the weight of the hound’s skull, and soft whines drift through the bustling camp. “Why?”

                “Someone’s going to be very ill.” She sighs, and Alistair really hopes he’s around to see it.

* * *

                The road to Redcliffe is quiet, all things considered. Lenora had expected more refugees, at least, but they haven’t met anyone save another dwarven merchant calling himself ‘Old Tegrin’. They haven’t met any darkspawn either, however, so she’ll count herself lucky.  

                She’s trying to work up the nerve to ask about Goldanna. She doesn’t know why it’s so hard; it’s not as though she hasn’t already _met_ the woman, in some sense. She just doesn’t know if she’s _real_. And she doesn’t know how Alistair, for all his humorous deflections, is handling the encounter. He seems alright, but then – well, so does she. And she is decidedly _not_ alright.

                She takes a breath, mustering whatever courage she has, and slows her pace. It only takes a few moments for him to catch up to her, a curious glint in his eye.

                “Everything alright?” He inquires, eyes scanning oh-so-discreetly for injury.

                “You said Arl Eamon raised you, yes?” She blurts, rather ineloquently. If ever there’s a time for her mother’s silver tongue, it’s now. The Maker, she thinks, has a rather cruel sense of humour.

                “Did I say that?” He muses, cocking an eyebrow. “I meant that dogs raised me. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels. A whole pack of them, in fact.”

                “Really?” She quips, a smile playing on her lips. She doesn’t feel quite as anxious anymore, at least. “That must have been tough for them.”

                “Well, they were flying dogs, you see.” He nods seriously. “Very strict parents, and devout Andrastians to boot.”  
                “Do you write, at least?” She teases, patting Fang’s head as he trots along beside her. “I bet your mother’s a bitch.”

                “Oh!” He laughs, surprised. “Clever as ever, it seems.”

                “It’s a gift.” She chuckles, but the mirth doesn’t last long. Her smile dims, replaced by that same apprehension that seems to plague her features of late. She doesn’t know how else to ask – there’s really no way to bring it up naturally. She looks up at him unsurely, and takes another breath. “I wanted to ask you…about, ah, _Goldanna_.”

                “Ah,” His eyes widen, but he doesn’t look surprised. “I was, uh…” He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “I was trying to figure out how to tell you, actually. It’s a…well, it’s a bit of a weird situation, isn’t it?”

                “A bit.” She concedes. “I don’t mean to pry, I just –”

                “You’re not,” He assures quickly, as if he’s offended by the mere suggestion. “I’ve, well – I’ve never actually met her. I know she exists, but not much beyond that.”

                Lenora nods, absorbing the information. She feels like she’s just let herself into a part of his life without an invitation, and it sits uneasy in her gut. She needed to pull him from the demon’s grasp, she knows. But to be privy to his thoughts, his dreams, is something entirely different.

                “She lives in Denerim, I think. We share the same mother, but I don’t know anything about her, either. I’m told she was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle. That’s why Arl Eamon took me in.”

                She doesn’t know what to say, or if she should say anything at all. She has no idea what it was like for him, and she can’t even begin to imagine. She’s lost her family, yes, but to have grown up without them? To have never known them? To have lived the life he has and still be so –

                _Not exactly the best time for feelings, Lenora._

“I remember I had an amulet,” He muses fondly, pulling her from her thoughts. “With Andraste’s holy symbol on it. The only thing I had of my mother’s.”

                “Had?” She asks softly, and he breathes a heavy sigh.

                “I lost it, when I left for the monastery. I was so _angry_ at being sent away, I – I threw it at the wall, and it shattered. Stupid, _stupid_ thing to do.”

                “You were just a child.” She wants to reach for him, to comfort him, but she thinks better of it.

                “And raised by dogs.” He adds, though his usual wit is somewhat lacking.

                “What about your father?” She tries. “Did he –” She’s interrupted, quite loudly, by someone heaving on the side of the road. They both turn, startled to find Darian hunched over, an inhuman groan escaping his throat. The noise is promptly followed by his last meal, displayed in brilliant clarity for the party to see.

                “I warned you.” Ariah says flippantly, passing him with a shake of her head. “But no, ‘I’m not a child, Ariah’.” It only takes them a moment to understand what she means.

                “Ah,” Lenora sighs. “That’s where it went.”

* * *

                The sun has only just risen over the lake by the time Recliffe Village comes into view. Lenora stands on the edge of the valley, everyone bustling behind her as she dwells on their plan. She’s hesitant, to say the least, to have all four Wardens venture into Redcliffe together. She doesn’t know what Loghain has planned, beyond their deaths, and she doesn’t know how far his influence has spread.

                The last thing she wants is to walk into a trap. And politics, she knows, is a very big trap.

                Ariah comes to stand next to her, surveying the village with a careful eye. It’s a strange comfort to be travelling with the elf again. It’s familiar, despite their short time together before Ostagar.

                “There’s no one outside.” She says lowly, unease creeping into her tone. “Shouldn’t there be people in the streets by now?”

                “There should be.” Lenora confirms, but she’s learned not to expect things to be easy. Not anymore. “Perhaps the Arl’s illness has everyone on edge. Or, perhaps, it’s something more than that.”

                “Has the _entire_ country gone to shit?”

                “I hear the Frostbacks are lovely.”

                “Oh?” Ariah quirks a brow. “You tell jokes now? Alistair’s certainly done a number on you, hasn’t he?”

                Lenora sputters, eyeing the elf in disbelief.

                “I – what – he hasn’t – _what_ –?”

                “Speak of the devil.” She nods to Alistair, slowly making his way over to them, but Lenora catches the mischievous grin playing on Ariah’s lips. She’s always been a silent observer; Lenora misses the silent part.

                “Look,” Alistair interrupts, looking as uneasy as ever. “Can we talk, for a moment? I need to tell you something I, ah…should _probably_ have told you earlier.” He scuffs his boot in the dirt, gaze shifting between the two women.

                “Let me guess, you’re an idiot.” Ariah offers bluntly, and Alistair rolls his eyes.

                “Yes, that’s right. I stopped you to tell you I’m an idiot.” He rebukes, and Lenora stifles a laugh. “Whew! Thank the Maker you know already! Now I can stop worrying I’ll be found out.”

                “You were trying to hide it?” Ariah snorts, and takes the opportunity to withdraw from the impending conversation. She strides past the pair without so much as a goodbye, stalking back over to the caravan in stoic dismissal.

                “Ignore her.” Lenora implores. “What did you want to talk about?”

                “You…you asked me, the other day, about my father. You know, before the whole…” He sticks his tongue out and gags, but Lenora doesn’t need a reminder, thank you very much. “Anyway, I don’t…I don’t talk about it. Ever. To anyone. Arl Eamon raised me, yes, but the _reason_ he did that was because…”

                He stops, eyes on the ground between them, and Lenora can feel her heart constricting. Whatever this is, whatever he’s trying to say, sits heavy on his tongue. She’s unsure, for the first time, if she wants him to finish speaking.

                “Well,” He sighs, and there’s no going back. “Because my _father_ was…was King Maric. Which made Cailan my…half-brother, I suppose.”

                The silence that follows is suffocating. Lenora can’t tear her eyes away from his, watching with baited breath as they finally rise to meet her. There’s no humour in them, no wicked teasing.

                _He’s not joking,_ she realizes. _Oh sweet Maker, he’s not joking._

“You…you’re…” Her mind has come to a complete halt, recycling the same thought over and over again until it escapes past her lips. “You’re not just a bastard, but a _royal bastard_?” It’s a cringe worthy response, at the very best, but it’s better than ‘ _you’ve lied to me for weeks_ ’.

                “Ha!” He laughs, surprising her. There’s nothing funny about this. This is distinctly unfunny. “Yes, I guess I am, at that. I should use that line more often.” He’s making light, she knows, but ‘king’ is still rattling in her head. He’s the bastard prince of her country. She’s been travelling with the rightful heir to the throne. She’s been _sharing meals_ with King Maric’s _son_.

                Her absent expression dulls his mirth, and she hates the guilt that replaces it, but she can’t manage anything else.

                “Lenora, I – I would have told you, but…it never really meant anything to me.” He reaches for her, stopping short of her hand. His fingers twitch, unsure, before curling into a fist and returning to his side. “I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan’s rule, and so they kept me a secret. I’ve never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew either resented me for it, or they coddled me. Even _Duncan_ kept me out of the fighting because of it.”

                Her eyes snap up then, her gut twisting like she’s been punched. They sent him with her to that tower, away from the battle, away from _death,_ because of his parentage. A parentage that stretches back as far as hers. A parentage that started with the man who united their country. He’s a _Theirin –_ and he’s alive because of it.

                She can’t be mad at that, not if he’s standing here now because of it.

                “I didn’t want you to know as long as possible. I’m sorry.”

                _That_ though? For the life of her, she can’t figure out why that stings so desperately.  

                “I – I think I understand. I mean, I do – I do understand.” She splutters, disappointment dwelling in the back of her throat. He’d been raised to keep it a secret, to believe that he was a mistake; she can’t blame him for not telling her.

                That doesn’t stop it from hurting.

                “Good,” He breathes, relief flooding the air between them. “I’m glad. And, ah, there you have it. That’s really all there is to the story.” He offers a smile, but it’s a small, cautious thing.

                “Are you sure?” She intents it to be a joke, something to ease the tension, but she isn’t feeling particularly funny anymore. “You’re not hiding anything else?” She hopes he receives the attempt at humour better than she delivered it.

                “Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and minor obsession with my hair, no.” He grins then – an honest, toothy grin – and she thinks she can feel the moment her heart restarts. “That’s it. Just the prince thing.”

                Prince. _Prince_. The word doesn’t sound real.

                “Now can we move on?” He presses, clearing his throat and motioning out to the village beneath them. “And I’ll just pretend you still think I’m some _nobody_ who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

                _That,_ she can’t abide. _That_ finally spurs her to action. She reaches for him before he can turn to leave, grasping his hand with a strength that surprises even herself. He blinks in confusion, staring down at their joined hands before meeting her eyes with a question.

                “You’re here with me.” She says, like they’re the most important words to ever leave her lips. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

                He squeezes her hand, eyes softer than she ever seen them, and smiles so sweetly she fears she might burst. He looks at her with such warmth, with something more than the ‘friendship’ she’s been hiding behind. He looks at her like she’s the only thing in the world, and she realizes, for the first time, that they are more than their parents.

                And if the world wasn’t falling apart around them, well – maybe then she’d be able to do something about that.

* * *

                Ariah Mahariel is not unintelligent. She knows what the villagers see when they look at their ragtag group of misfits. She’s gone from one mage, to three. Add a qunari and she’ll consider them lucky if they’re allowed within a hundred feet of the Chantry. That, she figures, is why Lenora and Alistair are the ones inside talking to this Bann Teagan.

                She watches the militia idly, noting their horrendous technique as they misuse their bows. They aren’t going to hit anything, holding them like that – it’s almost laughable. And she’s not the only one to notice, if Lenora’s expression is anything to go by as she exits the Chantry. She negotiates around the archers, Alistair close behind as they make their way across the yard.

                “We spoke to Bann Teagan.” The ex-Templar relays, diverting Ariah’s attention away from the disaster behind him. “Next up is the mayor, Murdock. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s the one over there shouting orders.”

                “Alright,” Lenora nods, doing a quick survey of the small village. “Someone teach those men how to nock an arrow – assuming we want them to live, that is – while I deal with that bear of a man.” She squares her shoulders and straightens her posture. Ariah can’t say she envies the woman. “Alistair, if he bites my head off, you’re in charge.”

                “Oh, no.” The man protests, shaking his head. “That’s really not a good idea. Terrible, in fact. Lenora, are you listening? Hello?”

                Ariah shifts her feet as Lenora strides away, acutely aware of the bow strapped to her back.

                “So,” Alistair starts, and she’s grimaces in anticipation. “Are you going to help those men, or shall I? I can’t promise they’ll be any better at archery, but they’ll certainly know there’s someone who’s worse than them.”

                “Leliana can help them.” The elf shrugs, nodding to the Chantry Sister as she speaks quietly with Wynne.

                “Four hands are better than two.” Alistair pushes. She wants to punch the smile right off of his face.

                “Those men wouldn’t listen to me, even if I wanted to help them.”

                “They’re desperate.” He says, and she narrows her eyes at his tone. “ _Make_ them listen.” She frowns, unconvinced, but he refuses to break his stare. She gives in with a groan, rolling her eyes at the absurdity of it.

                “ _Fine_ ,” She spits. “Just stop looking at me.”

                The man grins triumphantly, leaving to inform Leliana of her new job as Ariah turns back to the villagers.

                “Creators help me.”

* * *

                “We’ve got some work to do before nightfall. There’s a dwarf to deal with, a smithy to reopen, and a knight to –” Lenora stops, looking over the group with a quizzical frown. “Where did Ariah go?”

                “She’s helping Leliana teach the archers how to hold a bow.”

                “Willingly?” She’s confused, but Darian simply shrugs with a quick nod. “Huh…interesting. Ah, anyway, someone has to speak with Dwyn, on the docks. Apparently he has the muscle we need. Sten,” She glances to the qunari, who offers naught but a grunt in response. “Care to try convincing him to fight with us tonight?”

                “If I must.” The warrior grunts, stalking off before Lenora can offer her thanks.

                “Darian,” She sighs, shaking her head. “Can you please ensure the dwarf is _alive_ after Sten is through with him?”

                The mage, suddenly intensely aware of his size, chuckles uneasily. He nods, gripping his staff a little tighter as he sets off after Sten.

                “Now, I need someone to talk to Ser Perth, one of the Arl’s Knights. He’s up by the windmill. See if there’s anything we can do for them.”

                “I’ll go.” Alistair offers, adjusting his shield as Wynne agrees to accompany him. He knows most of these men, at least on some level.

                “Good, thank you.” Lenora turns to Morrigan, already sensing the mage’s indifference. “That leaves us to deal with the smithy.”

                “Joy of joys.”

* * *

                “Look,” Darian tries again to appeal to the dwarf. The stubborn man is grumpy about Sten kicking in his door – which was a tad over-the-top, granted – but at least Darian is trying to be reasonable “I’m very sorry about your door. Sten here gets a little…excited.”

                “Apology accepted.” The dwarf grunts. “The name’s Dwyn, pleased to meet you. Now get out.”

                “The village needs your help.” Darian interjects quickly, eyeing the two men loitering behind Dwyn. “What will it take to convince you to fight?”

                The floor shifts beneath him, ever so slightly, and he rushes to revise his statement.

                “Something that doesn’t require my rather large friend here to render you incapacitated.” He hears Sten huff and fall back, seemingly disappointed.

                “I’m a mercenary, mage, not a maid to be wooed with words. I don’t respond to ‘ _please_ ’.”

                “How about sudden, blinding pain?”

                “Now, now, Sten – let’s not cripple the man.” Darian laughs nervously, feeling incredibly vulnerable standing between the two parties. “We need them to fight, remember?”

                “We need only injure one.” The qunari reasons, far too easily. “The rest will heed our instruction without complaint. Two is better than none.”

                “While that is true, it shouldn’t be _necessary_.” Darian coughs, watching the mercenaries shift uncomfortably.

                “If they fight, they are likely to die. If they don’t, they are certain to die.” He’s menacing. Incredibly large and overwhelmingly menacing. Darian doesn’t know if he _hates_ Lenora for this, but he certainly isn’t feeling too chummy at the moment. “Why not spare them the grotesque agony of being torn into by their own dead? Let me deal with them now.”

                “Or, you know,” Dwyn spouts in a hurry. “We could just agree to fight.”

                “Then our work here is done.” Sten states, turning to Darian. The mage flinches, just a bit. He can’t help it. “Let us return to the Grey Warden.”

                “I _am_ a Grey Warden, Sten.” He reminds the giant. Gently. “There’s more than one of us.”

                “I am aware. You are not _the_ Grey Warden.”

                “What’s that supposed to mean?”

                “In Seheron, mages are collared and their mouths sewn shut.”

                “Oh, that’s what you meant.”

* * *

                “Your technique is quite beautiful.” Leliana smiles, catching Ariah’s attention as she returns from her last demonstration. “It’s very graceful.”

                “Oh…uh…thank you.” The elf blinks, unsure exactly how to respond. Manners, she thinks, would be a good start. Then, she hasn’t been very good at those of late.

                “Have you been wielding a bow long? You must have started when you were very young.”

                “I did.” She nods, turning to watch the militia try to apply her instruction. “I began hunting when I was eleven.”

                “I confess, I only know the Dalish through tales and songs.” Leliana continues, and Ariah isn’t sure how comfortable she is with ‘small talk’. The archers, for all of their faults, are at least improving in form. Perhaps she can just focus on – “I would love to hear about your people, if you have any stories to share.”

                Or not. Leliana, it seems, is bent on conversation.

                “I have no stories.” Ariah says defensively, clutching her bow a little tighter. “The Dalish have lost most of their history.”

                “About yourself, then.” She pushes. “What was it like growing up?”

                And Ariah thinks of Tamlen. She thinks of climbing trees as children, of trying to ride the halla, of painting fake vallaslin on their faces with mud. She thinks of a little boy, with blue eyes and scraped knees and a curious grin. She remembers Tamlen, smiling at her with a brightness to rival the sun, and she’s done talking.

                “I’m not here to relay my childhood.” She sneers, eyes sharp on the archers as they release another round of arrows. “I’m here to try and save these fools from themselves. Perhaps you should be focused on the task at hand.”

                She’s expecting anger, or offense, or… _something_ negative, at the least. She’s not expecting Leliana to smile.

                “Of course,” She says, nodding respectively as she looks out at the militia. “You’re right.” The smile playing across her lips is all too knowing, and Ariah doesn’t like the feeling it leaves settling in her gut. “Another time, perhaps.”

                And Ariah knows that, despite her coldness, Leliana isn’t giving up any time soon.

* * *

                “Alright, we’re as prepared as we’re ever going to be.” Lenora looks around the village, making note of possible barricade locations and points they’ll need to fortify. They may stand a chance, yet. “I’m going back in to speak with Bann Teagan. All we have left to do now is wait.”

                The group, anxious as ever, mulls about outside the Chantry. Darian still isn’t sure how he feels about it all. An entire village is depending on them, like they have any business defending it. But then, an entire country is depending on them, isn’t it?

                Oh Maker, that’s so much worse.

                There’s eight of them. Plus a dog. And out of that eight, only half of them are actually Wardens. How are they supposed to stop a Blight with only four Wardens? How are they supposed to do any of this? Andraste’s ass, it’s only luck that they’ve even managed to survive _this_ far! And then with a civil war _on top_ of the Blight, well –

                He feels sick again. This is all entirely too much.

                “Feeling alright?” Alistair asks, clapping the mage on the shoulder. Darian doesn’t know how to explain just how _not alright_ he’s feeling. Alistair, at least, seems to recognize the unease on his face. “It’ll be fine.” He assures, offering a confident smile. “The village is ready. We’re ready.”

                “I hope you’re right.”

                Alistair looks ready to continue, to calm whatever fears his friend has, but the Chantry doors opening claim their attention. Lenora strides out, looking more disgruntled than before.

                “I lied.” She groans, shaking her head as she reaches the group. “There’s a missing child I have to find.”

                “What next, Warden?” Morrigan mocks, a sweetly sick smile on her lips. “Rescuing kittens from trees?”

                “If I’m asked? Very likely.” Lenora admits, scrubbing a hand over her face. “Head back up to the windmill, I’ll meet you there. If the corpses are coming from the castle, I want to barricade their only way into the village.”

                There are murmurs of agreements and the shuffling of boots. Lenora takes a breath, scratching Fang’s ear as he leans against her leg. She turns towards the docks, only to find the one person who hasn’t heeded her instruction.

                “Well,” Alistair grins, hand on the hilt of his sword as Lenora arches a brow at him. “Let’s go find that kid, then.”

* * *

                Ariah watches as the barricade is engulfed in flames. They’d found barrels of oil in the abandoned general store, but she still isn’t sure the fire will actually kill the corpses. She isn’t excited to be fighting the undead to begin with – she doesn’t know how she’ll handle the _flaming_ undead.

                Lenora has certainly expressed her fair share of reluctance.

                The warrior woman stands on the front line, looking for all the world like she belongs there. Ariah isn’t sure what changed in her after Ostagar; if she’s leading because she can or because she has to. The others, including Alistair, seem content enough to follow her. And Ariah certainly isn’t interested in whatever mantle she’s taken up. She’s happy to let someone else make the decisions. For now, at least.

                “There they are!” A knight yells. “By the gate! Archers!”

                Lenora glances back to her, catching her eye across the field. She offers a quick nod, her shoulders set as she draws her sword. Ariah returns the gesture, indicating her readiness as she nocks an arrow. The men around her follow suit, and she hopes they’ve benefitted from her training.

                Corpses stumble through the barricade without hesitation, earning worried glances and panicked whispers. Many of them succumb to the flames, only to have the next wave crawl over them. The blockage quickly becomes more corpse than wood, yet the creatures continue to advance. The knights, however, refuse to relinquish their position.

                Sten lands the first blow, slicing a corpse clean in half and eliciting a frenzied cheer from his comrades. Before she knows it, Ariah’s companions are engulfed in the fray. Blades swing every which way, and Ariah doesn’t have much difficulty finding targets. It’s harder, in fact, not hitting her companions.

                It doesn’t take long for the horde to thin out, even with its numbers. As the Arl’s knights pick off the few remaining corpses, Ariah takes stock. She’ll likely have to scavenge before the night is through, but she’s not unfamiliar with the practice. At least these arrows won’t be thick with darkspawn blood.

                She watches Lenora scour the field, palming her sword as she ensures the vile things are truly dead. Her hatred for the creatures rears its head, and Ariah grimaces as the woman crushes a skull beneath her boot. She observes the warrior as she continues her collecting, broken only from her musing by the cries of one of the townspeople.

                “They’re coming from the lake! They’re attacking the Chantry!”

                It doesn’t take long for Ser Perth to organize his men, but Lenora is already shouting orders.

                “Stay here, prepare for the next wave! Morrigan, keep that barricade lit – Sten, take point – Ariah, with me!”

                The elf breaks into a run, following her fellow Warden down the hill. The Chantry comes into view soon enough, with several villagers holed up against the large wooden doors. The corpses advance with alarming speed, forgoing their expected shambling.

                As an outsider entering the fray, Ariah can confidently say that she much prefers being on the outside. She knows what it’s like to be surrounded, and she doesn’t much care for it. She and Lenora carve through the wall of bodies easily enough, relieving some pressure and giving the townspeople some leeway. Everywhere she aimed, there was a beast there to take her arrow.

                “I can’t miss!” Lenora grins, clearly amused at the simplicity of it. Ariah rolls her eyes, hiding a chuckle behind her bow as she nocks another arrow. It hits a particularly decrepit creature, severing its spine and pinning its skull to the Chantry wall.

                “How’s that for an offering?” She laughs at the absurdity of it.

                A glint of steel catches her attention then, and she turns in time to see Alistair bash a corpse with his shield. His armor is splattered with blood, but judging from his movement, not much of it is his own. He’s agile, she’ll admit, for a man his size – and in armor, no less. That doesn’t mean he has eyes on the back of his head, however, and he’s too focused on the creatures in front of him to notice the one behind. She readies an arrow, but Lenora takes it upon herself to dispose of the creature instead.

                Her sword slides through the corpse’s neck like silk, and Ariah repressed the urge to gag as the head topples over and rolls away. Alistair turns, alerted by the unpleasant gurgle, in time for its body to follow.

                “Miss me?” Lenora quips, and Ariah returns to her own targets.

                “Like you wouldn’t believe.” The ex-Templar swings out, crippling another corpse. “Is that death you’re wearing? It suits you.”

                “I think that’s you.”

                “Ah, well, it was time for a bath anyway.”

                “Duck –”

                “What?”

                “ _Duck!_ ”

                “Oh, thanks. Two steps left, would you?”

                “Ugh, that one was sticky.”

                “Now that’s just disgusting.”

                One day, Ariah will be able to say she’s spent months training to block out the battlefield banter. Today is not that day.

                “Could you two start killing, please?!”

                She huffs a satisfied sigh as the Wardens begin side-stepping around each other again. She clips a corpse in the jaw with the end of her bow, knocking its head back. It advances regardless, head lolling on its shoulders, and she’s reaching for her quiver when she feels it. A cold, numbing pinprick that spreads throughout her torso like a wave. Then, just as quickly, the tingling explodes into a pain that sets every nerve ablaze. Fire burns in her veins, hurricanes raging where the brisk night air hits the blood seeping through the leather of her armor. She barely has enough time to realize what’s happened before her senses overload.

                Her vision blurs, fingers numb as she struggles to breathe. The air is thick with fog and death, and it sits heavy in her lungs. All she can smell is blood, coiling in her nostrils like smoke, and she vaguely registers her knees hitting the dirt.

                “Damnit!” Someone else’s voice rings in her ears, echoing in her skull. “ _Damnit!_ ” She feels, rather than sees, a corpse hit the ground not far from her. Or, she hopes it’s a corpse. She can’t tell. There’s an arrow in its head; it looks like one of hers. She’ll have to ask later.

                _Later._ Later, she thinks, is an excellent time for anything. Everything, even. She’ll sit up later. She’ll brush herself off, later. She’ll grab an arrow and drive it through the heart of the thing that just _impaled her_ , later.

                She’ll remember to breathe. Later.

* * *

> _o maker, hear my cry:_
> 
> _guide me through the blackest nights_
> 
> _steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked_
> 
> _make me to rest in the warmest places._
> 
> _- **transfigurations 12:1**_


	9. Chapter VIII

 

> _magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._
> 
> _foul and corrupt are they_
> 
> _who have taken him gift_
> 
> _and turned it against his children._
> 
> _they shall be named maleficar, accursed ones._
> 
> _they shall find no rest in this world_
> 
> _or beyond._
> 
> **_\- transfigurations 1:2_ **

* * *

The light is dim, but it burns all the same. From what she can make out – and it isn’t much – she’s guessing she’s in the Chantry. She can’t have been out too long, but her head throbs and her entire body aches, so she stays put. She focuses on breathing, relieved to find her lungs clear as she takes a deep breath.

                “We won’t be longer than three weeks.”

                Oh? It’s Lenora’s voice, but Ariah hasn’t the faintest idea what she’s talking about.

                “Any boat big enough to carry all of us was burned in the attacks. Teagan has offered a few horses. It will have to be enough.”

                “I doubt the demon will stay quiet that long.” Alistair’s voice chimes in. What’s this about the demon?

                “That’s why I need you here.”

                “I – sorry, _what_? You’re joking.”

                “Someone has to keep an eye on Connor.” There’s an authority in her voice that Ariah still isn’t quite used to. Alistair doesn’t seem to pay it any mind.

                “Leliana has eyes. So did Sten, last time I checked.” He quips back, and Ariah has to wonder just how close they’ve grown in her absence.

                “I trust _you_.” Lenora insists.

                “You can’t go alone.” Alistair argues.

                “I’m not.” That hits a chord – Ariah just isn’t quite sure what kind. It’s silent for a moment, and Alistair’s voice is quiet when he speaks again.

                “Is this about earlier?” He asks gently. “About…my –”

                “No.” Lenora says abruptly. “No, Alistair, it’s about keeping everyone _safe_. I know _you_ will. I can’t very well leave Ariah in charge.” That effectively stalls their conversation, and Ariah figures now is as good a time as any to announce her wakefulness. She shifts in the bed, groaning as her spine pops with the movement.

                “Ariah,” Lenora says, so carefully but with such relief. “Thank the Maker. How do you feel?” The elf opens her eyes to find the woman leaning over her, hovering.

                “Awful.” She answers shortly, and Alistair snorts a laugh. “What happened?”

                “Connor’s been possessed.” Lenora explains. “We managed to infiltrate the castle, but we can’t save him without the Circle’s help. I’m leaving in the morning to speak with them.”

                Ariah knows enough about demons to know that’s not the whole truth. She also knows better than to suggest killing a child – at least to these two. She admits, she’s not too keen on the idea, either. She moves to sit up, but Lenora’s hand is firm on her shoulder. 

                “Wynne closed the wound, but she’s insisting on bedrest.” She says, keeping Ariah in place.

                “For how long?”

                “At least a week.”

                “Not happening.” She pushes the very idea away. She’s not living in a bed for a week, not with a demon about.

                “I don’t really think you have a choice.” Alistair points out, but Ariah’s fairly certain she could fight Wynne if she had to.

                “He’s right.” Lenora nods, straightening her back. “I’m going to get the mages, you’re going to stay in bed, and _you_ ,” She turns to Alistair pointedly. “Are going to make sure she does.”

                And if the stifled silence is anything to go by, neither of them are going to argue.

* * *

                “I, uh…I think you should know…”

                Lenora watches Darian fumble with the reins, frowning at the beast as he fidgets in his saddle.

                “Should know what?” She presses, swinging onto her own horse.

                “I…um…”

                “Sometime this age would be marvelous.”

                Darian coughs, holding the reins a little tighter as he winces.

                “I’ve never actually ridden a horse before.”

                Lenora cocks an eyebrow, unsurprised. Having grown up in the Circle, she hadn’t exactly expected him to be an experienced rider.

                “It’s simple.” She assures with a smile. “Just move with the horse. Don’t fight it, or you’ll ache for a week.”

                “Oh, good.” He grimaces, trying and failing to ease the tension in his shoulders. “Good to know. I can do this. I can definitely do this.”

                Not an hour later, the Ferelden Forder trots easily along, its saddle empty. Darian’s arms are locked around Lenora’s middle as though the gentle swaying may throw him off.

                “I thought you said you could do this.” She accuses.

                “I thought I could.” He mumbles into her back.

                “I don’t think you even tried.”

* * *

                “It’s been five days.” Ariah grumbles, trying to argue her way past the elderly mage who now blocks her way out of the Chantry.

                “Which, if I’m correct, does not equate to ‘at least a week’.” Wynne replies calmly.

                “But you already healed it.”

                “You were _stabbed_ , girl.” Wynne shakes her head. “I closed your wound and have been mending bits of tissue since then. I have mostly been attempting to keep your liver intact.” Ariah very nearly huffs, but she thinks better of it. “Do you know what happens to a ruptured liver?”

                “My guess is death.” She says. “And I’m grateful, Wynne, truly – but I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

                “There is nothing else for you to do.” The mage insists, making her way to the door. “And I’m not letting you undo all of my work just to bleed out.”

                Ariah supresses an irritated groan and retreats to her cot, grumbling at the sliver of sunlight that shines through as Wynne slips out of the building. She doesn’t like being idle – or being stuck in a Chantry, of all places – but none of them have much of a choice now. Alistair isn’t handling it much better, if his pacing is any indication. He makes his rounds through the village, then up to the castle. She’s not sure if it makes him feel better about being stuck in Redcliffe, but at least he gets to roam about freely.

                Even now, he stalks up and down the rows of pews. He worries for Connor, she knows, but a part of her can’t help but think that the child isn’t the only one on his mind. His feelings for Lenora – and hers for him – don’t mean much to Ariah one way or the other. But his pacing is driving her mad, and maybe if he _talks about it,_ he’ll sit still for two damn seconds.

                “She’s going to be fine.” She huffs out, ignoring the curious stares of the townspeople who still linger in the Chantry. Alistair quirks his head towards her, unsure if she’s addressing him, or…? “Yes, you.” She says pointedly. “Stop worrying.”

                “I’m not –”

                “You’re digging a trench.” She cuts him short, and he rolls his eyes. But, he glances – ever so quickly – at the stone floor, and relents. He makes his way over to her cot, looking as confined as she feels.

                “We don’t just have the darkspawn to worry about.” He says by explanation, as if she isn’t already _keenly_ aware of that fact.

                “I know she only has one sword, Alistair, but it _can_ kill more than one thing.”

                “I know that, I _know_ – I just…” He slumps next to her on the cot, out of arm’s reach but close enough that they can speak quietly, amongst themselves.

                “You haven’t been separated since Ostagar, have you?” She asks quietly, and hates the familiar crease that furrows his brow.

                “I’ve been alone for…for a long time.” He says slowly, like he isn’t sure if she’s even listening. He glances at her, carefully, and she meets his eyes with wary attention. He needs to talk, she knows – and she’s going to listen. She’s trying to be better at this…friend…thing. She only really had one; she’s a little rusty.

                “Until the Wardens.” She guesses – accurately, if his sigh is anything to go by.

                “And then they…the battle, I – up until last week, she was all I had left.” He shakes his head and huffs a laugh; a sad, sardonic thing. “And she wasn’t even mine to have.”

                She wants to tell him that he’s not alone, none of them are. Not anymore. But she doesn’t believe the words as they swirl in her own head; she knows he’d have no reason to. Tamlen wasn’t hers, either. Not really, not the way she – well, not the way she wanted. But she hadn’t even known _that_ until he was gone. She wonders if it would be worse, now, if she had told him. If she’d loved him, the way he deserved to be loved. The way she wishes she had. Would his loss be that much worse? The thought sinks in her stomach, an impossible weight.

                “It’s been a month,” Alistair whispers, and Ariah’s lungs ache in her chest as she reminds herself to breathe. “But it feels like it was yesterday, and so long ago, all at once.”

                She thinks of her friend, her first love, and thinks she knows exactly what he means.

* * *

                He doesn’t mean to see. He’s watching the trees, poking at the fire, trying to stay awake – there isn’t much else to do. So when Lenora shuffles restlessly in her sleep, her tunic hiking up against the furs of her bedroll, he – well, he…

                He doesn’t mean to see the scars. Truthfully, he wishes he hadn’t. They’re none of his business – nothing to concern himself with. He wants to look away, to focus on the woods, to do _anything_ other than follow the white tendrils of puckered flesh. He can’t see where they start, or end, but what he _can_ see makes him curious. And he’s never been very good at impulse control.  

                He thinks of his own scars; little white marks scattered across his body that tell the less-than-exciting story of his life. He’s got a tiny dent in his head from a tome Arryn threw at him when they were young, and a few nicks on his hands from spells gone awry. But he doesn’t have anything like the victory etched into the sliver of skin he can see. Nothing like the survival story carved into her hip, against whatever odds.

                He wants to know the story. He wants to ask. He won’t, though. He knows better.

                A scar like that, a _story like that_ – it’s not the sort of thing people talk about. Not to strangers.

                And Darian is tired of travelling with strangers.

                Then she’s shifting again, frantic – breathing in short, ragged gasps – and he barely has enough time avert his eyes before she’s jerking awake. Her hand flies to her collarbone, feeling for something that isn’t there as Fang whines quietly at her side. Then she settles, readjusting her tunic and taking slow, deep breaths.

                “Bad dream?” Darian asks quietly, and she hums as she relaxes back into the bedroll.

                “Ostagar.” She says mournfully, and he doesn’t need to ask for more. He knows that dream – that nightmare. He’s had it.

                “I always wanted to see the world.” He says, almost wistfully. “I never wanted to see it this way.”

                She breathes out, almost a laugh, and nods.

                “I know exactly what you mean.”

* * *

                It’s not the first time Alistair’s woken in a cold sweat, startling himself from sleep as the arrow slides beneath his ribs. It’s become a regular occurrence in the past weeks; the tower, the ogre, and –

                He scrubs his hands over his face, trying to wipe the image of her broken body from his mind. All he can see is the arrows, jutting from her chest like beams of light as her blood soaks into the stone beneath her. Usually he can look over, see her across the fire, and assure himself that she’s there. She’s alive, she’s safe – or, as safe as she can be. Now?

                It’s been nine days, and he misses her.

                He really is hopeless.

                He scratches at the small, circular scar as he tries to settle back into his bedroll. _She’s fine_ , he tells himself. _She doesn’t need you_.

                _Not like you need her_.

                That particular thought surprises him, and he tries to retract the words despite never actually speaking them. He’s barely known her a month; he can’t be – he’s not – he just… _cares._ He’s always cared, about everyone. Everything. She’s no different. She’s his friend, one of the few he has left. That’s all.

                He’s not as convincing as he’d like, but it’s all he’s got at the moment.

                Then his mind wanders to Connor, hidden away in the castle, and he groans into his furs. What if they can’t save him? What if they’re too late? What if they have to –? Maker’s breath, he’s not getting any more sleep tonight. He won’t kill a child, he _can’t,_ he –

                He can’t.

                None of this is right. Eamon should be awake, Connor should be safe. Lenora should be _here_. With them. With _him_. He thinks of the rose, nestled carefully in his pack, and hopes it’s not the only thing he can save from the Blight. Wynne had caught him thumbing at it, the night they returned from the Tower. She’d enchanted it for him, an all-too-knowing look in her eyes as he struggled to suppress the blush burning his cheeks. He’s immensely grateful now, because it’s going to take him another age to decide what to do with the damn thing. He wants to give it to her, to Lenora, but –

                _She’s your friend,_ he reminds himself. _Just a friend_.

                And they could all die tomorrow, so what’s the point of pretending?

                Andraste’s ass.

* * *

                The mages are all too willing to help, much to Lenora’s relief. There were some…tensions, between Darian and the First Enchanter, but Darian’s stony silence had only lasted until they were free of the lake. The only information she has on Darian’s conscription is what she’s heard from Wynne – and that isn’t much.

                And Darian doesn’t seem too keen on talking about it, so she doesn’t ask.

                That doesn’t stop her from wondering.

                “Well,” The mage says, brushing a stray curl from his eyes. “We made record time getting here. Somehow, I don’t think we’ll keep it up with a dozen mages behind us.”

                “What, you don’t think we’d all fit on two horses?” She quips, and Darian flashes her a surprised grin. It’s been something of an awkward week, to say the least, but it’s given them a chance to become acquainted. He’s funny, she’s learned, and she’s trying to be…something. More personable, maybe. She hasn’t exactly been the prime example of ‘sociable’ since – well, she’s working on it.

                “There’s quite a few apprentices here, actually. Or, they _were_ apprentices, when I was – _oomf!_ ” He’s abruptly cut off, and Lenora startles, narrowly avoiding the boot that ricochets off the back of Darian’s head.

                “Uh…?” She frowns, reaching for the boot as Darian sighs.

                “Arryn.” He says, his face scrunching up in anticipation.

                “Who –?” The girl from the Tower?

                “ _Arryn_.” He repeats, and the quiet acceptance is met with a fury that almost makes Lenora laugh.

                “Darian Amell!” Her voice rises over the din of half a dozen conversations, and Darian cringes at the closeness of it. “Did you forget how to write? Or did you simply not care enough to assure me you hadn’t _died_?”

                Lenora takes the chance to slide the boot into Darian’s hands, earning a gasp of betrayal as she smiles apologetically and slips away.

                “No, don’t –!” But Arryn is already upon him, and Lenora knows better than to get involved in _whatever_ it is that’s about to happen.

                “You cannot even fathom how incredible _angry_ I am with you right now.” The elven woman seethes, and Darian offers a nervous chuckle.

                “Well, I’m not on fire yet, so it really can’t be that –” Arryn snatches her boot back, giving him another swift whack on the shoulder with it before shoving her foot back inside and stomping past him. “Arryn, come on!” He tries, but she doesn’t stop. “I didn’t have a choice, you know that.”

                “I’m not talking to you!” She throws back at him.

                “Arryn!”

                “ _Not – talking – to – you._ ”

                “This trip is going to be awesome.” Darian sighs. “I can just feel it.”

* * *

                One more week, she thinks. One more week and then Lenora and Darian _should_ be back with the mages. One more week and she can leave this village.

                One more week.

                “I don’t like this.”

                Alistair’s voice pulls her from her musings, and Ariah glances down at the bowl in her hands before cocking an eyebrow at him.

                “Alistair, _you_ made this.” She reminds him.

                “What?” He frowns. “Ah – no, not the stew.” He watches her like she’s grown another head. It’s not her fault he didn’t give her any context. “This whole situation.”

                “Well,” She shrugs. “A demon has possessed a child and is now reanimating the dead while a man lies in a poison-induced coma. Plus, this whole place smells like fish. I don’t think there’s much to like here.”

                Alistair blinks at her a few times, then returns to his meal.

                “How does Darian talk to you?” He inquires, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

                “He doesn’t.” She says. “He talks to himself. I’m just around when it happens.”

                “It’s been two weeks.” Alistair muses, a teasing lilt in his tone. “You must miss his voice.”

                Her grumble as she shoves another spoonful of stew into her mouth is his answer.

* * *

                “I’m Arryn, by the way. I know we met before, I just – well, I wasn’t sure if you remembered me. We only met briefly, I wouldn’t blame you if you forgot. I’m Arryn. Surana. Surana is my last name, I don’t know why I paused like that. I just –”

                “Lenora.” The Warden interrupts, punctuating it with a poignant pause before, “Cousland.”

                Arryn smiles, and Lenora offers a small one in return.

                “I’ve read about your family.” She says then, and Lenora nearly chokes. “Quite an impressive history.”

                “Ah, thank you.” She manages to get out, and Arryn’s face drops at her tone.       

                “Not that you’re not impressive!” She tries to rectify, and it’s so far from what Lenora’s expecting that she nearly trips. “I mean, you stopped Uldred, and that’s pretty impressive. I just meant that you come from a long line of impressive people; that must be hard to live up to. Not that you’re not doing a great job of it, I just – you know – I – I’m just going to stop talking.”

                The silence that follows very nearly suffocates her. Lenora has had her fair share of awkward conversations – granted, most of them were with suitors – and she knows enough to recognize there’s something sitting on the tip of Arryn’s tongue. A question she isn’t sure how to ask yet.

                “So,” Lenora takes a shot in the dark. “Did you know Jowan?”

                Something sparks in the other girl’s eyes, and she think she’s hit the right note. The blood mage is still sitting in a cell beneath Redcliffe Castle, but he’s alive.

                It’s more than she can say for a lot of people.

                “I did.” The elf nods. “Or, I do. Or…whatever. We were friends, good ones. Him, Darian, and I.” She wrings her fingers nervously as they walk; it reminds Lenora of Darian. “Have they, uh…have they decided what to do with him?”

                “No, not yet.”

                “Is it bad?” She looks like she doesn’t want to know the answer. Lenora can’t blame her.

                “It…doesn’t look good.” Comes the careful answer. Arryn nods, trying to conceal the hurricane raging in her head. She reaches absently to pat one of the horse as it ambles along beside them, jumping when it shakes its coat.

                “He’s the reason Darian was conscripted, you know.” She says quietly, suddenly far away. “Got him into trouble.” Lenora had her suspicions, but the confirmation does nothing to settle her unease. “He’s lucky Duncan was there to get him out of it.”

                The mention of the late Grey Warden steals the breath from her lungs, and her burns itch at the reminder. She rubs a hand over her armored hip, slides it to the small scar below her diaphragm – one, in a set of three – where an arrow once sat.

                “That…that seems to be a pretty common sentiment.” She says, and wishes it didn’t have to be.

* * *

                The air in the castle is stale, the atmosphere somehow darker than when they’d left. The silence of it is impossibly heavy, even as Teagan relays the weeks’ happenings.

                “I’ve sent someone to fetch your friends from the village.” He’s saying, and Lenora nods. “As well as the apostate from the dungeon. We can begin whenever you’re ready.”

                “Thank you.” She says, but her mind is wandering. “How is Ariah?” She has to know.

                The Bann chuckles, and Lenora can feel the air return to her lungs.

                “Recovering.” He assures. “Quite impatiently, from what I’ve heard.”

                “I can’t say I’m surprised to hear that.” The Warden smiles. “With any luck, Connor will be right behind her.”

                “Maker willing.” Teagan breathes, straightening himself as the mages behind shuffling into the main hall. They’re quiet as they prepare, setting out vials and murmuring amongst each other. Arryn is still keeping her distance from Darian, but her anger seems to be dissipating. She isn’t glowering at him anymore, at least. 

                Whatever hushed whispers can be heard are silenced as a guard arrives from the dungeon, Jowan in tow. He doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see his fellows, but Lenora catches the tension that coils in his shoulders when his eyes land on Arryn. To the girl’s credit, she neither yells nor scowls. The only expressions lingering in the weary lines of her face are sadness, and something akin to disappointment.

                Somehow, Lenora thinks, that’s worse.

                “Only one mage can enter the Fade.” Irving is saying, and she returns her attention to the ritual.

                “I’ll go.” Jowan offers readily, sparking more whispers and looks of contempt. “This is my fault,” He continues. “I know that. I poisoned the Arl, I taught Connor. I know I don’t deserve mercy, I’m not expecting that – but I want to _help_.”

                Beside her, Lenora hears Darian let out a sharp hiss. Then, Arryn’s hushed voice reaches her ears.

                “You didn’t tell me he _poisoned the Arl._ ” She accuses.

                “Well, you didn’t react very _nicely_ , did you?” He whispers back, rubbing his arm.

                “I don’t know that I trust him in there.” Teagan says earnestly, and Darian grumbles under his breath. “I don’t even trust him out here, in shackles.”

                It’s quiet for a moment, and Teagan looks to her. She’s no mage, but she’s been in the Fade. She’s _been_ there, and she doesn’t relish the idea of sending someone else in, either.

                “I’ll go.” And this time, Darian doesn’t whisper. Lenora feels her chest tighten at the look in his eyes as they shift to meet hers; it looks like guilt.

                “Darian,” She starts, because he’s looking at her like he’s asking for permission, and she doesn’t know what to do with that. They’ve been on the road for three weeks – they’ve gotten to know each other, yes, but –

                But then his hand is on her shoulder, the slightest pressure sending a wave of such familiar companionship, it nearly bowls her over. She hadn’t realized how touch starved she’s been until this moment, but Darian is already walking away. He grips his staff until his knuckles turn white, and Irving details the dangers of the task he’s just agreed to take on.

                “I know,” He assures, tension tightening every muscle in his body. Lenora’s fingers twitch, and she finds herself taking a step, and then another, until she’s standing beside him again. “I will end this.” He says, but he’s not really speaking to Irving anymore. She grips his shoulder, feeling him relax beneath her palm as she tries to convey what she can’t manage to say with words. _I’m here. You can do this. I won’t let anything happen. Don’t do anything stupid._

                “Be careful.” She does say. “Be safe.”

                He smiles, nods, and holds himself a little taller.

                “I’ll be back in no time at all.”

* * *

                The ritual has already started by the time Alistair manages to shoulder his way into the main hall, his apprehension only coiling tighter as he scans the room. He must look like a nervous wreck, but they’re _this close_ to saving Connor and the waiting has been _killing him_.

                “Is it done?” He asks no one in particular, and the woman in front of him shakes her head.

                “He’s trying to find the demon.” She says, and Alistair recognizes her voice.

                “Arryn?” He says, and the elf turns just enough to meet his eyes in surprise. “Alistair.” He taps his chest, and she manages a small, sad smile in recognition. “Do you know where –?” She doesn’t let him finish, stepping aside and nodding to where Lenora sits, Darian’s head in her lap.

                His heart catches at the sight of her, brow furrowed and such compassion in her eyes he needs to remind himself to breathe. _She’s back_ , he sighs. _She’s safe_. Then Ariah comes storming in, and all eyes turn to them.

                Lenora meets his gaze, and damn him if he doesn’t hear the smallest gasp escape his lips.

                She’s stunning, and he’s an absolute idiot.

                _Not the best time for feelings, Alistair_.

                He’ll repeat it until he manages to get it through his thick skull.

                “You fucking _idiot_.” Ariah seethes, and Alistair narrows his eyes and thinks of that cheese nug again. But she simply shoves past him, and he grudgingly accepts – with no small amount of skepticism – that she’s isn’t reading his mind either. Instead, the stoic elf stomps over to Darian, eliciting murmurs from the small crowd as she kneels beside him.

                “How long?” She asks, and Lenora manages to tear her eyes away from Alistair long enough to answer.

                “Not very.”

                “But he will wake up?” Ariah pushes.

                “If he succeeds.” Irving answers.

                “ _Fuck_.”

                “He _will_ succeed, Ariah.” Lenora says, but her companion releases an exasperated sigh. Then, quieter. “I’m glad to see you’re alright.”

                “I’m eager to be…elsewhere.” Ariah admits.

                “I can imagine. It must be –”

                But then Darian’s eyelids flutter, a groan passing through his lips as he wakes, and Lenora thinks she must imagine the relief flooding Ariah’s face. Arryn is quick to worm her way towards them, dropping to her knees beside Lenora as Darian shifts. Her hands hover over him as his eyes open, debating whether to touch him or not. He frowns up at them, blinking blearily as he registers where he is.

                “Three of…? Oh Maker,” He breathes, surprised resignation settling over him as his eyebrows reach for his hairline. “I actually died.”

                The women look at each other, and Lenora scoffs as she pushes his head from her lap. She stands, turning to Teagan with a brief nod, and the crowd releases their collective breath. Isolde’s cry of relief is followed by sobs of joy as she barrels past the guards, running up the stairs. The energy in the room shifts, and Darian manages a cleansing sigh as he sits up.

                “You did it.” Arryn grins, and Darian can’t quite believe it, himself. He glances to Ariah, who offers a small nod, but something shines in her eyes that he hasn’t seen before.

                He did it.

                Arryn grabs his hand, shaking her head as a smile continues to tug at the corners of her mouth.

                “I thought you were mad at me.” He jokes.

                “I am.” She assures, but the smile doesn’t fade. “I’m just past the ‘not talking to you’ part.”

                “Oh,” He chuckles. “Good. That means horrible jokes at my expense are next.”

                “You got it.” She nods seriously, before pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

                “Yes.” He says. “I’m fine, I promise.”

                “Good.” She breathes, glancing over her shoulder. “ _Good_.” He thinks she’s looking at Lenora, but she’s caught up in a conversation with Bann Teagan. “I’ll be right back.” And apparently that doesn’t matter, as Arryn extracts herself and strides over to the woman with a determination he’s sorely missed.

                He turns to look at Ariah, still kneeling beside him, and she just shakes her head.

                “Get up, idiot.” She sighs. She looks exhausted, but takes his hand and pulls him up with her anyway.

                He’s surprised to find he’s missed _her_ too.

* * *

> _at last did the maker_
> 
> _from the living world_
> 
> _make men. immutable, as the substance of the earth,_
> 
> _with souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear,_
> 
> _endless possibilities_
> 
> _**\- threnodies 5:6** _


	10. Chapter IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariah is clueless and Lenora is angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahaha? Here's a chapter, I guess? Sorry for the wait!!

> _and as the black clouds came upon them,_
> 
> _they looked on what pride had wrought,_
> 
> _and despaired_
> 
> **_\- threnodies 7:10_ **

* * *

“You want to…stay?”

                The mage simply nods, her shoulders set and her jaw clenched. Lenora knows she wants to help, especially after reuniting with Darian, but: “This is dangerous, Arryn. You have to know that.”

                “I know.” She assures.

                “This was a hiccup compared to what we’re up against. We’ve got targets the size of Tevinter on our backs, painted by man and monster alike. We’re not safe.”

                “No one is safe. That’s why I want to help.”

                “Then Irving is the one you need to speak to. If he grants you leave, then…” She trails off, but Arryn understands the implication. She smiles, perhaps a little too excitedly, and leaves to find the First Enchanter.

                Lenora isn’t sure how she feels about being responsible for another life, but they need all the help they can get. She hopes Arryn is an asset, rather than a liability. She’s young, too young – but then, they all are, aren’t they? Too young to go to war, too young to wage it. The world has aged them beyond their years – she can feel her bones grow weary at the mere thought.

Lenora runs a hand over her hair, trying to tuck stray strands back into place to no avail. She needs a bath, and a good night’s rest. Maker knows she could use a hot meal, at the very least.

                “Long trip?”

                She startles at his voice, but still finds herself smiling as she turns to face Alistair.

                “Do I look that bad?” She breathes a laugh, rolling the crick from her neck.

                “Did I say that? I don’t think I said that.” He muses, tucking an errant hair behind her ear with a smile. She feels her cheeks flush, but can’t be bothered to be embarrassed. She wants to tell him that she’s missed him. She wants to tell him why.

                “It was implied.” She teases instead, and reminds herself that _now isn’t the time_.

                She wonders if it will _ever_ be time. She wonders if she’ll live that long.

                “I don’t think it’s possible for you to look bad.” He says seriously, and it steals the air from her lungs. He doesn’t look abashed – doesn’t try to twist his words or take them back. He just looks at her, eyes alight and ears pink and lips quirked up in the way that makes her heart stutter in her chest. He’s _flirting_ , and she’s dangerously close to doing something remarkably impulsive.

                “You haven’t seen me drunk.” She manages, watching his eyebrow pique dangerously. “That was not a challenge.” She’s quick to rectify.

                “I reckon you’d want to fight me, regardless.” Alistair chuckles.

                “Pardon?” She frowns. Why in the world would she want to fight him?

                “You look like the kind of drunk who’d pick a fight with anyone and everyone.” He explains, and Lenora opens her mouth to argue, only to find the words caught on her tongue. “Am I wrong?” He insists.

                “I want to fight you now.” She huffs.

                “You’d wrestle a bear with enough ale, I imagine.”

                “Stop imagining.”

                “Too late, it’s in there. Exasperated woman beats bear barehanded.”

                “Exasperated?”

                “You’d win, obviously.”

                “ _Alistair_.”

                “Are you telling me you couldn’t choke-hold a bear?”

                “Maker’s breath.”

                “Thought so.”

* * *

                While she does miss the comforts of a real bed and warm water, Ariah is relieved beyond measure to finally be on the move again. Her restlessness eases the further they travel from the castle, a lingering discomfort in the back of her mind by the time the sun signals their midday stop. She watches from the shade of a tree as Lenora makes her rounds, trading a few words with everyone before finally approaching her.

                “And how’s our collection of idiots this fine afternoon?” Ariah snorts, readjusting herself against the tree and Lenora drops down beside her, a piece of cheese in her hand.

                “Darian and Arryn wish we’d stopped an hour ago, Wynne is insisting on tending to your wound, Alistair wants me to fight a bear, and Sten is disappointed in us for stopping at all.”

                “You’re going to fight a bear?”

                “No. That’s not even close to what I said.”

                “I want to see you fight a bear.”

                Lenora gives her a shove, and Ariah finds herself _almost_ willing to admit that she missed the woman. Almost. They have an easy comradery, despite everything. She’s not quite sure when it happened, but she doesn’t find Lenora entirely intolerable.

                “How are you feeling?” The other woman changes the subject, eyes flickering down to where she knows the bandages sit below leather armor. Though she had it repaired – a favour from Owen, for finding his daughter – Ariah can’t help but feel vulnerable beneath Lenora’s gaze.

                “Fine. Itchy.”

                Lenora huffs in amusement, an understanding smile on her lips as she nods. She breaks off a bit of cheese, passing it to Ariah as they sit in companionable silence. They watch the party pick at their lunches, munching contentedly until Leliana meanders their way. She sits without a word, offering the pair some bread before joining them in their observations.

                “Darian certainly is persistent, no?” Leliana smiles, watching the mage wave his hands emphatically as Morrigan watches on with disinterest. Ariah glances up to follow Leliana’s line of sight, then grunts in affirmation and returns to her meager meal. Lenora chuckles quietly to herself, but remains otherwise silent. “Morrigan is withdrawn, perhaps a bit cold, but he is undeterred. I think she needs that levity; she’s spent most of her life alone, after all.”

                “What she wants is probably to be left alone.” Ariah chides.

                “Wants and needs are often two different things.” Leliana insists. “I think she’s lonely, and she doesn’t know how not to be. I think she’s scared not to be.”

                “Perhaps,” Lenora interjects, leaning forward to meet Leliana’s eyes. “She just needs time.”

                The bard smiles, cheeks pink, and nods. Ariah knows something has just passed between them – something more than idle gossip – she just doesn’t know what.

                “He’s patient.” Leliana assures. “He’ll still be there should she decide she’s ready.”

* * *

                Arryn Surana is no stranger to odd people – Darian is proof enough of that – but this? This _patchwork_ group of people were beyond strange. She’s never met a qunari before, not that Sten is all too interested in conversation. Morrigan is hostile at best, but Leliana is more than happy to speak with her, which is a relief. She knows Wynne, is glad to see the woman in good health, and Fang – oh _Fang_ is simply delightful! For a war hound, he’s quite affectionate! And she certainly hasn’t been sneaking him bits of cheese to solidify her place as second-favourite.

                And then there are the Wardens. She’d read stories of the Order, tales and songs of turning tides and stunning victories, and – _Creators forgive her_ – she can’t wait to see them in action! What must it be like, she wonders, to be the only ones left? She can’t imagine the weight they carry. She doesn’t think she wants to. She’s seen the look in Darian’s eyes some mornings, like he hasn’t managed to find a moment to really rest.

                But she knew what she was asking for when she insisted on her accompanying them, and she won’t be frightened off by sleepless nights or hefty responsibilities. She may not know exactly what they’re facing yet, but she’s a quick talker, and a quicker learner – she’ll adapt. She has to. She won’t leave Darian, not again, not to face this on his own. She thinks of the sunflowers she used to paint on his cheeks when she was feeling particularly cheery, or he homesick, and resigns herself to be sturdy. Ever-present. _Supportive_. Even if she is still upset with him.

                A shiver startles her, and she curls up a little tighter in defense against the cool morning air. It can’t be much past midnight, but she won’t get any sleep if she lets her thoughts linger any longer. Maybe that’s why they all look so weary in the morning – maybe they’re all thinking too much.

                She sighs, grumbling as she reaches up to gently poke at the tips of her ears. Numb, perfect. If she’s to miss one thing about the Circle it will be a fireplace in every room. Grudgingly, she kicks herself free of her blanket and gathers it up to drape over her shoulders, cocooning herself as she pokes her head outside to glance at the fire.

                Ariah is on watch, she knows, but Alistair sits next to her, ambling on animatedly about something as the flames flicker in front of them. Darian sits on her right, drawing in the dirt with a stick – and Arryn can’t see their faces, but she can imagine Ariah’s expression at being saddled with company in the middle of the night. The conversation stops, however, the moment Lenora’s tired frame emerges from her tent. Alistair is quick to his feet, reaching for her as her shoulders heave with a sigh. She takes his hand without a word, sitting beside Ariah as they settle down again. Neither of them let go, Arryn notices, and if Ariah leans over just enough to rest her knee against Lenora’s – well, Arryn will just pretend she doesn’t see that. She can handle the chill, she decides, and returns to her bedroll before she’s caught spying. Maybe she’ll just wrap her hair around her head and call it a scarf.

                She thinks, perhaps, that she doesn’t want to know what keeps them up at night.

* * *

                “What time is it?” Darian drawls, readjusting his robes and pushing an errand curl out of his face. “It feels like we’ve been walking forever.”

                “Very near dinner, I hope?” Arryn adds, twisting long strands of golden hair between her fingers. “I’m starving.”

                “We stopped for lunch two hours ago.” Leliana laughs, watching Arryn’s face fall in exasperation.

                “It’s barely past midday.” Ariah scoffs, eyeing the pair of mages skeptically.

                “Can you tell from the sun?” Arryn asks, her hunger suddenly forgotten. “Because I’ve read about it, and you can read the time and direction from the sun. Though I’ve never done it myself – obviously, I haven’t had much occasion to – I mean, I’m more scholarly and less, ah, practical, I presume. But now that I’m out in the world – not that I’ve never been outside, you know, I just haven’t really travelled. Well, not since I was very young, anyway. But now that I am, again, I’d certainly like to try! Is that what you did? Read the sun, I mean? Could you teach me? If it’s not too much trouble – I know we have a lot going on, but I’m a quick learner and I…I…am going to…stop…now?”

                The silence that follows is accompanied by a distant stare as Ariah seems to process the flurry of words.

                “It took her all of five seconds to say that.” She turns to Darian, who simply shrugs in response. “And you know what she’s saying?” Arryn’s ears go pink, and Darian grins.

                “You can read the sky orb, Arryn doesn’t need to breathe; the mysteries of life.”

                Arryn’s surprised snort is overpowered by a particularly loud, “Howe’s done _what_?” from the direction of the city gates. Denerim looms just beyond, but Ariah suspects a cure for Arl Eamon isn’t at the top of Lenora’s list of priorities at _this_ particular moment.

                “Not Howe,” A young man corrects. “The Regent. Teyrn Loghain’s appointed him the Arl ever since Urien’s death at Ostagar. The unrest in the Alienage demanded a change.”

                “What of Vaughn,” Lenora demands. “The Arl’s son?” The man, a boy really, seems more than eager to gossip about the capital’s state of affairs.

                “Official word is he was killed in the revolt.” He says, but leans in to add with a whisper, “But I think he finally got what was coming to him. He was never decent about the elves, if you know what I mean.” Lenora finds she knows exactly what he means, in fact. “Never a compassionate man, Vaughn.”

                “So this Howe has control of the city?” Ariah interjects, and Lenora dismisses the messenger to return to his duties.

                “And Loghain has control of Howe.” Alistair adds with a heavy sigh.

                “This just keeps getting better.” Lenora groans, scrubbing a hand over her face. “Denerim’s a big city, but there’s no way someone won’t be informed of our arrival.”

                “We’ll have to minimize attention.” Ariah agrees. “That means no qunari, and no Witches of the Wilds.”

                “Morrigan wouldn’t be so conspicuous if she’d let me find her something else to wear.” Leliana chimes in, glancing at the apostate to emphasize her point.

                “Come any closer, _Sister_ , and you’ll need to find new limbs.”

                “Um…hold on?” Darian’s nose scrunches up as he frowns in confusion. “Forgive my ignorance, but who is Howe? And why do we care that he controls the city?”

                Lenora freezes, and Alistair’s eye widen in concern, and Ariah frowns because _really, what is that about_?

                “He’s a traitor.” Leliana says simply, though her tone would suggest more than an inkling of disgust. “He orchestrated a massacre in Highever. He _murdered_ the entire ruling family and took the Teyrnir for himself. And it would seem Loghain has rewarded him for it.”

                “Highever?” Arryn squeaks, and Ariah cocks a brow at the elf as she chews her lip. The girl hasn’t been able to hold her tongue, and now she’s speechless? “But the…” She looks to Lenora, but the warrior stares ahead, refusing to make eye contact as Arryn sniffles out a meak: “The Couslands rule Highever.”

                And a storm of silence rages in the space between them, and Ariah remembers every outburst, every argument, and every clipped rebuttal.

                _I’m not arguing with you._

_If you wanted me dead, you should have left me in Highever._

_I didn’t **want** to be saved._

And she wants to flay Howe alive. How had she not seen it? Put two and two together? And her brother? Creators, she’d been looking for her brother in Ostagar! The man still didn’t know his family had been _murdered_ , and then, with the battle, the darkspawn – well he could just as easily be dead, couldn’t he? And where did that leave Lenora?

                She turns, surveying their ragtag group of outcasts, and realizes they’re all watching with baited breath. None of them knew – save Alistair, if his silence is anything to go by – and they’re all just realizing who exactly has been leading them the past few months. It makes a sickening kind of sense, and Ariah hates the somber acceptance she can see in Lenora’s eyes when she finally shifts to face them.  

                “Howe will get his reward in due time.” She says carefully, tone uncomfortably steady. “For now, we focus on Genitivi.” There are murmurs of acceptance, ‘of course’ and ‘you’re right’ and Lenora is handing out assignments before anyone can get another word in edgewise. “I’ll take Alistair and Darian to find the scholar. Ariah, I need you to take Leliana and Wynne to resupply. As much as we can carry. Maker knows where we’ll be off to after this.”

                “What about me?” Arryn asks quietly, still wringing her fingers, and nearly squeaks again when Lenora meets her eyes. It’s tense for a moment, the weight of Arryn’s revelation settling in the air, and Ariah finds she doesn’t actually know how Lenora will react. She thought she had a read on the woman, an insight, if not an understanding. But she’s never seen that emotionless stare before, and she doesn’t quite know what to do with that. Anger, grief, determination, yes – but…nothing?

                “You’re with me.” She says then. Softly, kindly, even if it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. And Arryn looks like she could cry with the relief of it.

* * *

                Brother Genitivi’s home is small, poorly lit, and currently occupied by one – rather infuriating – assistant. Weylon, as even Arryn can see, is a very poor liar. His stories change, his eyes dart about the house as his nerves catch up to him, and his inconsistencies are not going unnoticed. He claims, again, that the scholar has disappeared after leaving for an inn near Lake Calenhad, but his demeanor suggests otherwise.

                The mages stay back, casually examining the house, and listening as Lenora questions the man. Alistair lingers to her left, perhaps a bit closer than necessary, but not without reason. Arryn doesn’t need to see Lenora’s face to know she's tiring of the charade, and quickly.

                “I’m not thick, Weylon.” The woman says gently, but the accusation still strikes a chord as Weylon shifts nervously. “And I’d hate to think that a man of your intelligence would _lie_ to me.”

                “N-no! Never!” He stutters quickly, waving his hands about as if _that_ isn’t suspicious in and of itself. “I told you everything I know! Brother Genitivi told us – t-told _me_ – about the inn and that’s all!”

                “Us?” Alistair interjects, raising a brow as he rests his hand _oh-so-casually_ on the hilt of his sword. “Who’s ‘us’?”

                “What? No – no one, it was a slip of the tongue –”

                “ _Enough_.” Arryn startles at the aggression in Lenora’s tone, nearly knocking into a chair in her surprise. “I don’t have time to listen to you fumble over your words, so you’re going to stop lying to me, or so help me, Maker, I’ll make sure you never speak again.”

                “Note to self,” Arryn mumbles quietly to herself, barely a whisper so as to avoid drawing attention. “She does, indeed, get mad. Alter behaviour accordingly.” She really wishes she had just kept her mouth shut. It couldn’t have been that hard. Just _don’t_ announce to the party that her whole family had been slaughtered. Slaughtered. What an ugly word. Ugly deed, she supposes, but –

                “I gave you a chance to turn aside.” _Oh,_ she thinks, _that’s not good._ Weylon is shaking his head, his feeble frame replaced by one of growing hostility.

                “Arryn,” Darian whispers, taking her sleeve and pulling her back, away.

                “A chance to forget you ever heard of Genitivi and the Urn.”

                _That’s really not good._

“But you _persisted_.”

                _So really, truly, very not good!_

                Where he’d been hiding those daggers, Arryn can’t guess. They’re too large for his boots, surely. Large enough to do serious damage, especially considering just how close he is to her friends. Very close, in fact – entirely too close! She doesn’t even have enough time to shout before Weylon jumps at Lenora. All she can hear is her heart pounding in her ears, until it’s drowned out by a low, guttural gurgle. It takes her a moment to realize it’s the sound of blood gathering in someone’s throat; the sound of being impaled.

                She hadn’t even seen Lenora draw her sword – too focused on Weylon – but there she is, pulling it from the man’s gut as if she’d been wielding it all along. She wipes it against his shoulder as he drops to his knees, removing most of the blood before sheathing the blade. She doesn’t bother waiting for Weylon to properly die before approaching the door at the far end of the room, and Arryn wonders if such indifference is normal for Lenora, or a symptom of her emotional state.

                “Why does everyone want to kill us?” Alistair grumbles, following her to the door.

                “Because,” She begins, throwing her weight into the door to break the old, feeble lock. “We always seem to know more than we should.” The remark is accompanied by a crinkle of her nose and a sad sigh, and Arryn knows what it is even before the stench hits her.

                When it does, however, she does a bit more than make a sour face. She feels the bile rise in her throat and claps a hand over her mouth to supress the urge to vomit all over the creaky floor.

                “I think we’ve found the real Weylon.” Alistair grimaces, pushing past Lenora into the room.

                “We don’t get paid enough for this.” His partner coughs, following him to inspect the small area. She glances regretfully at the body stuffed in the far corner of the room, but tries to refocus her attention on finding out why the man was killed in the first place.

                “We don’t get paid at all.” Comes Alistair’s reply.

                “We should complain to someone.” That earns her a snort and a chuckle, despite the circumstances.

                “Loghain would love that.” Alistair teases. “Oh, don’t mind us. We’re just here to demand fair pay while we try to survive your endless onslaught of deceit and murder.”

                “It would certainly confuse him.” Lenora concedes. “A small victory is better than none.”

                “Oh, I can just imagine the look on his – oh! I think I’ve found something.”

                “A journal?”

                “And directions. To a place called…Haven? Never heard of it. Bit suspicious.”

                “Fortunately, we’re very experienced in ‘suspicious’.”

                Arryn, for her part, is fine where she is, listening in while the other two deduce their next destination. She picks up important bits like ‘village’ and ‘Genitivi’ and ‘Urn’, and really just a whole lot of ‘finding’, but the majority of her focus is on the books that litter the room. Surely the man wouldn’t mind if she just, ah – _borrowed?_ – one or two, would he?

                “Arryn!’ Darian whispers harshly, nudging her with his shoulder as she eyes a particularly heavy volume. “There are two dead men in here. Now isn’t exactly the time to start stealing books.”

                “If I hold my breath,” She insists. “I can pretend they’re not here.”

                “ _Arryn_.” He warns.

                “ _Fine_.” She drops the book back on the table with a huff. “I’ve read them anyways.”

* * *

                “Just call him.” Leliana says distractedly.

                “Oh really?” Ariah snorts. “It’s that simple? I’ve _tried_ calling him! He doesn’t listen to me!”

                “He must miss his mistress. Perhaps he went to find her? Poor thing.”

                “Oh yes, coddle the hound while we sit in the middle of the market like fools.” Ariah groans, ducking to check under a stall as its merchant watches uneasily.

                “Oh hush, Ariah. Mabari are known for their intelligence, you know. He’ll be fine. Let’s just take the time to browse, yes? I’m in desperate need of new boots.”

                “Leliana.” Ariah says sharply as she stands up again, catching the redhead’s attention. “Do you know what Lenora will do to me if she finds out I lost her dog? After what happened at the gate?” She points dramatically at the stall next to her, and the tender ‘eep’s in surprise. “Do I look like I want to die next to a _fruit stand_?”

                But the bard simply smiles fondly, picking an apple from the stall and passing the merchant a few coppers. She deposits the apple in Ariah’s hand, still insufferably calm, and reiterates: “ _He’ll be fine_.”

                Ariah, for all her prowess, does nothing but stare at the fruit as Leliana strolls away. She gapes at it, then turns to the woman behind the stall in exasperation. She’s quick to shrug, hands hovering in front of her as if to ward the elf off should she enter a murderous rage over an apple. Then a sharp, singular bark startles the pair, and the merchant actually ducks as Ariah swirls around to find the source.

                Fang bounds happily towards her, trailed by three Grey Wardens and an elven mage who looks decidedly greener than Ariah remembers.

                “Did you find Genitivi?” She asks when they draw near, stepping away from the stall and ignoring the relieved sigh the merchant releases. She’s quick to throw a disapproving glance at Fang, but the hound seems unperturbed as Alistair answers.

                “Not quite.” He frowns. “We have an idea where he was going, but there was a man in his home posing as his assistant.”

                “And his _actual_ assistant?” She asks, knowing better. Arryn gags and her hands fly to her mouth, and – _shit_ – that effectively answers that question.

                “It looks like we’re headed to a place called Haven.” Lenora bypasses the inquiry, correctly assuming that Arryn’s reaction is sufficient enough.

                “How far?”

                “Two weeks, by the looks of it.” She waves a folded parchment, presumably a map, and looks around the market. “We’ll resupply and leave tonight. We can’t risk Howe hearing of our arrival.”

                Alistair claps his hands together, grinning. “Alright, who wants to fetch the monster and Sten? Hey!” He rubs at his arm as Lenora withdraws her fist. “Just because I’m wearing armor, it doesn’t mean I can’t feel you hitting me.”

                “Remember what we said about provoking the shapeshifting witch?” She reprimands.

                “She’s not even here.”

                “How would you know? She can _shapeshift_ , Alistair. She could be that crow as far as you know.”

                “But she’s _not_. Right? That’s just a regular crow. How do you tell the difference between a regular crow and a witch crow? Don’t laugh at me! Lenora! This is serious now! How am I supposed to talk about her behind her back if she’s got bird spies everywhere?”

                “Ariah,” Lenora pointedly turns to the elf, and Alistair huffs as he watches the birds suspiciously. “Take Darian and see if Morrigan and Sten need anything? Wynne, perhaps you could take Arryn to the apothecary. See if they have anything we could use on the road. We’ll round the market and stock up. Maker knows we could use some fresh food.”

                The group disperses, but not before Ariah waves an apple in Lenora’s face like a dagger, frustration clear on her face. She says nothing, just brandishes the fruit and stalks away, and Lenora blinks after her.

                “Well that was vaguely threatening.” She muses.

* * *

                Ariah, Leliana smiles to herself, is deviously charming. She can’t help thinking of the woman as she browses the market, a stall of earthy vegetables displayed before her. She turns a few potatoes over, scanning them absently as she wonders if Ariah prefers her vegetables raw or cooked. She’s distracted, she’ll admit, and perhaps a bit infatuated. The elf is gruff and less… _refined_ , than Leliana is used to – but she’s genuine, and honest, and the bard is not too prudish to confess that her visage stirs butterflies in her chest. Ariah, as perceptive as she is, seems to be naïve to her attentions, but Leliana’s never been one to shy away from a challenge, and –

                “Leliana?”

                “Hmm?” She turns to Lenora, smiling as the woman gestures behind her.

                “Alistair and I will just be a moment.” She says, and Leliana finally breaks from her musings to spy Alistair pacing a few feet away. “We’ll meet you at the gates?”

                “Of course,” The bard nods, and watches her jog back to halt Alistair in his steps. He looks nervous, uncharacteristically so, as Lenora leads them to a small house on the far side of the market. She knows better than to pry, at least into something like this. She has an inkling she knows what it’s about, regardless. Instead, she continues her meandering, stopping to chat to a wonderfully polite dwarven merchant and his wife about the wealth and culture in Orzammar.

                She doesn’t realize just how long she’s spent with them until she’s heading back towards the gates and manages to catch the end of another conversation.

                “Everyone is out for themselves.” Lenora is saying, eyeing the aforementioned door with such disdain, Leliana is surprised it doesn’t combust. “Sometimes that’s a lesson we have to learn the hard way.”

                Alistair, known for his chatter, says nothing. He nods once, a profound disappointment in his eyes, and she feels her heart break for him. He’s too trusting, she knows – she’d just hoped he’d never have a reason to be otherwise. It would seem they’re all having their foundations shaken; she can only pray they don’t crumble.

* * *

                “We’re wasting time, running across the country and back.” Darian states, squinting in thought as he packs up his bedroll. “We should be splitting up. The Brecilian Forest is just south of here. We could appeal to the elves and find the Urn in half the time.”

                “When I left,” Ariah maintains. “There was only one other clan in Ferelden.” She takes his bedroll from him and stuffs it in with the others in Bodahn’s cart. “They’ll be deep in the forest for another few weeks at least. You’ll never find them before then.”

                “Not to mention our innumerable enemies.” Leliana supplies, all too pleasantly, as she adds her roll to the pile. “I don’t know about you, but I find comfort in our numbers.”

                “It’s a risk.” Lenora agrees, shooing Fang away from their newly restocked food stores. “The term ‘divide and conquer’ comes to mind.”

                “Alright, alright.” Darian waves away their arguments. “It was just a suggestion.”

                “And it would have been an intelligent one,” Morrigan quips sarcastically. “Had we not had the entire country looking for our heads.”

                “You know, I think that was almost a compliment.” He grins in return.

                “Do not think too hard on it, lest you hurt yourself.”

                “Too late.” Arryn laughs, nudging Darian with her shoulder. “I think I can see brain leaking from his ears.”

                Oh, how he’d miss the easy comradery of being the target of _everyone’s_ jokes. And he has another two weeks to revel in it, lovely.

* * *

> _then the maker said:_
> 
> _to you, my second-born, I grant this gift:_
> 
> _in your heart shall burn_
> 
> _an unquenchable flame_
> 
> _all-consuming and never satisfied._
> 
> **_\- threnodies 5:7_ **


	11. Chapter X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair gets a sword and Arryn finds some treasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a blog now! I don't know what to do with it, but it's got ficlets and edits and incorrect quotes for anyone looking for a little extra content! Come scream with me at khintress.tumblr.com!

> _maker, though i am but one, i have called in your name._
> 
> _and those who come to serve will know your glory._
> 
> _i remembered for them._
> 
> _they will see what can be gained,_
> 
> _and though we are few against the wind, we are yours._
> 
> **_\- trials 5:1_ **

* * *

He wants to talk to her. He knows she probably doesn’t want to talk about it, and it’s not as if he hadn’t known about her family before Denerim, but after – well, after the debacle with Goldanna – he…he just wants to talk to her. About anything. About everything. They’ve spent another week on the road, and they’ve spoken but haven’t really _said_ anything. He wants her to smile, really smile, so much his chest aches. He’s not even going to bother chastising himself about the poor timing of it.

                He’s thinking of possible ways to strike up conversation – because that’s truly how hopeless he is; can’t even _talk_ right – when something itches at the back of his mind. A tingling awareness, and the softest beginning of a song.

                “Darkspawn.” He warns, slowing his pace as the rest of their group catches up. Eyes scan the trees, and hushed murmurs fade in the breeze as people begin to cluster around Bodahn’s wagon.

                “Advancing?” Ariah stops, looking around for an inclination of their direction. Alistair doesn’t sense too many, certainly not the horde, and if they’re heading away from them, they may have no cause to worry. Then his heart skips a beat, and he watches Ariah curl her lip and furrow her brow. “ _Ambush_.” She seethes, and everyone scrambles for their weapons.

                “Protect Bodahn and Sandal!” Lenora orders, shield up as her sword rings from its sheath. Alistair swears he sees a smile – not a happy one, not the one he wants – tug at her lips as the first darkspawn emerges from the treeline. She advances on the creature as though she’s been hunting _it_ , and not the other way around. “Let’s see some blood.”

                The skirmish begins too quickly for him to process how relieved she seems to be, and before he knows it, his sword is slick with black blood, the poison soaking into the dirt. They’re outnumbered, but not outmatched – at least, not until –

                “Emissary!”

                He spins toward the voice, with barely enough time to raise his shield before a wave of magic flattens him. His head hits the ground with dizzying force, and he squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to stop the spinning. But he can hear the clattering of metal and the sizzling of magic, and he knows he doesn’t exactly have time for a break. So he opens his eyes, blinking against the light, and wonders with alarm if there are really three darkspawn hovering over him, or if he’s seeing triples.

                Ideally, he thinks, there would be _no_ darkspawn hovering over him. But his head’s still a little rattled, so he’s having a hard time doing anything other than trying to get his vision to focus. He vaguely registers his name being called from across the small clearing – and _yes, thank you –_ he knows exactly what sort of situation he’s gotten himself into. He doesn’t need everyone shouting about his compromised position, thanks.

                Then he feels something slide through the plates of his armor, and _oh –_ that’s what they’re yelling about. There’s a sword, he realizes, ruining one of his last good shirts. Something claws from his throat – a noise he doesn’t quite recognize – as he tries to thrust up with his shield. He doesn’t get very far before an arrow pokes through the hurlock’s eye, and he grimaces at the sight.

                He panics for a moment as the creature begins to topple forward; he really doesn’t want the dead weight of a darkspawn pushing on the sword still stuck in his gut. But then it halts, and he realizes with relief that someone has caught the thing from behind. He watches them pull it away, tossing it aside, and allows his head to fall back to the dirt. It’s too much effort to keep it up, he decides, and resigns himself to rest now that the immediate danger has passed.

                “Alistair,” A woman’s voice reaches his ears, and _oh_ , that’s Lenora. He likes Lenora. “This is going to hurt.”

                Wait, _wha –_

A strangled groan rumbles in his chest, and he remembers the sword.

                “S’not bad.” He grumbles, trying to breathe through the wave of nausea. The pressure is relieved, but his chest plate is still entirely too heavy.

                “Maker’s breath.” Comes the anxious response. “Can you stand?”

                “Stabbed.” He says shortly.

                “ _Yes_ ,” She sounds angry; that’s not right. “You were. Bloody fool.” No, not angry. Worried. That’s worse.

                But then she’s hauling him to his feet – _wow,_ that hurts – and taking most of his weight as they make their way to nearby tree. He feels a little bad about that; he’s got a lot of weight to take, he knows. His armor can’t be too light, either, and she –

                She sits them down, his breath catches in his throat, and his thoughts screech to a halt.

                “Hey?” She pats his cheek gently, catching his attention. “Don’t doze off.” Like he could fall asleep with her fingers working at the fastenings of his breastplate. She’s _removing his armor_ – and yes, he knows he’s been stabbed. He knows she’s trying to get to the wound. Let him have this.

                She pries it off of him, apologizing profusely the whole way, like it’s her fault he’s bleeding in the first place. A ridiculous notion, he thinks – she’s helping. Why is she sorry? The metal is placed aside, and he searches her eyes for an indication of severity. She doesn’t gasp, or gag, so that’s good, he figures. He’ll admit he’s caught off guard when her gaze meets his, but he’s settled for blaming that on the dizziness.

                “It doesn’t look too deep.” She assures comfortingly. “Wynne will fix you right up.” But then there’s pressure on his wound and – _Andraste’s ass!_ – her hands are on him. On his shirt, granted, but still. If it didn’t hurt so much, he’d likely be a tad more excited about it. But as it stands, it does hurt, and _really_ – leave it to him to get stabbed. Again.

                He didn’t think it was possible to make a bigger fool of himself, but, well – he’s always been one to defy expectations, hasn’t he?

* * *

                He hurts. Granted, it’s only been three days since he was lightly stabbed by an angry hurlock. But still, he hurts. They’ve just finished setting up camp, and he finds himself relieved to have some time to himself. He doesn’t want to admit to his pain, and though his head is mostly clear, he needs a moment to rest. Just some time to stop pretending like he isn’t sore or embarrassed or acutely aware of the sensitive flesh on his stomach.

                He pulls his shirt over his head, careful of Wynne’s meticulous mending, and prods the wound gently. It’s itchy, though Lenora was accurate in her observation of its severity. Not too deep – no organ damage, at least. Just another scar to carry around. He’s had worse, all things considered. Not that his inexplicable ability to get himself impaled or otherwise injured is something to boast about.

                He’ll have to get around to stitching his shirt, he supposes.

                He’s fishing the thread out of his pack when the fabric of his tent rustles and a voice drifts inside.

                “Alistair, have you – _oh_!”

                He looks up from his pack to see Lenora facing away, her gaze fixed on something outside.

                “Sorry.” She bites out, and he’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so transfixed on the pink glow he can see staining her cheeks. Now, he’s not vain – tries not to put too much stock in appearances, honestly – but he can’t help the satisfaction pooling in his chest.

                “Need something?” He asks, surprised that he manages to maintain an even, unaffected timbre as he does so.

                “Yeah – _no_ , no. Sorry. I – ah, I just – I had wondered if you’d – that is…you only have a few good shirts, you know, so I…” Ha! He’d thought the same thing, three days ago. Wait, was the state of his clothing so deplorable that other people were noticing? Hold a moment – “I can mend clothes.” She says then, pulling him back to the present. “My mother taught me.”

                She – _oh_ – she’s…

                She’s offering to fix his shirt?

                “I just – I noticed you were wearing it – the torn one, you know – and I thought I’d offer.”

                He holds up his spool of thread dumbly, and she risks a glimpse at the movement. Then a smile – a small, shy thing – graces her lips, and his heart stutters in his chest. She takes a few tentative steps, keeping diligent eye contact until the thread is in her hands. Then, and only then, does she look down.

                And the smile falls from her face like he’s struck her. He hasn’t even opened his mouth to ask what’s wrong before her fingers are ghosting across his skin, just under his ribs. He knows, then, what distracts her so. A small, circular scar – courtesy of an arrow atop the Tower of Ishal. She’s frowning at the puckered flesh as if it’s done her a personal injustice, and he’d chuckle if she didn’t seem so genuinely upset by the sight of it. He watches her eyes cloud and her brow furrow and he wants _oh so desperately_ to smooth the lines away.

                So he does.

                She relaxes at his touch, closing her eyes at the contact as he brushes a thumb over her brow. He slides his fingers into her hair, and down to cup her jaw, as she peers up at him through her lashes.

                _Maker’s breath._

“I have the matching set.” She says quietly, and he tries not to think of pressing his lips to each one of her scars. “Quite the pair, aren’t we?”

                _A pair?_ He can think of a few other words for it. For what he wants them to be.

                “Can’t seem to keep the blood where it ought to be.” He agrees, and silently rejoices at her surprised smile. Then she bites her lip, and he thinks – well, he thinks maybe she wants them to be something else too. She’s here, after all, with her fingers dancing across his skin and her eyes on his lips. All he has to do is lean down, just a little. Just duck his head, and –

                “ _Bark!_ ”

                They startle; she pulls her hand from his chest and he let’s go of her jaw, and they step back until they’re barely within arm’s reach of each other.

                “Shirt.” She coughs, holding a hand out, and he stares mutely for a moment before registering what she’s said. He realizes he still has the offending garment in his other hand – the one that wasn’t just _stuck to her face_ – and passes it to her in a rush.

                “Thank you.” He breathes, and then she’s gone as quickly as she’d appeared. He blinks after her, watching the flap of his tent flutter closed, and frowns. His scar – the old one, the one she’d touched – tingles, and he shivers as he remembers that he’s standing here _shirtless_ like an absolute fool. He’d just – he’d almost – _they almost_ –!

                “What the _fu –?”_

* * *

                Alistair is fairly easygoing, as far as Darian remembers. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man get into a serious argument; no angry yelling or anything of the sort. Even this – whatever this is – isn’t all that loud, but it is…intense.

                He wants to go up the mountain. Lenora disagrees. It’s a whole thing.

                He tries not to listen. Tries to focus on his pack and not on the _discussion_ happening ten feet to his left.

                “I’m fine. I’m healed.” Alistair is saying. And Darian never claimed he was trying very _hard_ not to listen, so he catches Lenora’s rebuttal as well.

                “You were stabbed.” She asserts.

                “Lightly stabbed.” He waves off her concern, but the ire in her tone is tangible.

                “ _Alistair_.”

                “I’m not staying here while you –”

                “Someone has to watch over the dwarves.” She interrupts, and Alistair stammers over his words.

                “Are you serious?” He sputters, and Darian really shouldn’t be listening.

                “What if a bear makes off with Sandal?”

                “Oh, _now_ you want to talk about bears.” The mage doesn’t know what that means, and he’s not sure he wants to. “You can’t ask me to –”

                “I’m not _asking_ –”

                “I can stay here.” He offers, and both heads to turn him in frightening unison. There’s a murderous glint in Lenora’s eye, and he thinks that _perhaps_ , that wasn’t the right thing to say.

                “Sorry?” She says, but he knows she’s not really sorry. It’s a warning kind of ‘sorry’. It’s an ‘I dare you to say that again’ sort of sorry. He really should have just kept to himself.

                “I can stay.” He repeats instead, like an idiot. “I’m not really a fan of this fog, anyway. Or mountains, at that.” He waves his hands around vaguely, and Alistair grins.

                “See?” The blond inquires, much too proud. “The dwarves are taken care of. Let’s find us a scholar, hm?”

                “I – you – _hm_.” Lenora throws one last glance at Darian, and he miraculously represses the urge to flinch. It probably doesn’t help when Morrigan offers her – _very strong_ – opinion as well. She apparently isn’t interested in scaling the mountains for the ashes of a dead madwoman, and resigns herself to remain in camp. He should likely be less excited about that than he is, but, well – the heart wanting, and all that.

                Lenora grumbles something to herself, and leaves Sten and Fang behind as defence.

                Darian isn’t so sure about his choice, after that. But he watches his companions leave, regardless, and has the sense not to pray for their safety aloud.

* * *

                Haven, as Ariah quickly discovers, is about as far from friendly as a place can get. There are no smiles, no pleasant conversation, not even a proper greeting – and, oh yes – _everyone is attacking them_. At least they’re in the right place, if the deranged cultists are any indication. It’s a good thing they left the scholar at the door; the worshipers up here are far better trained than their town-dwelling fellows.

                “They had a bronto!” Arryn exclaims, adrenaline still coursing through her veins as she pushes her hair from her face. “An honest to Mythal _bronto_! The dwarves raise them, you know? How did they get one way up here? Do you think there’ll be others?”

                “If we’re lucky?” Ariah huffs, trying to pry an arrow from the beast’s thick hide. “No.” She succeeds only in snapping the arrow’s shaft, and throws the broken wood at the bronto in a fit.

                “This one’s got a key.” Lenora announces, fishing the metal from a dead man’s pocket. “Let’s hope it opens that blasted door.”

                “What else do you suppose is in here?” Arryn continues, practically bouncing as they retrace their steps to the main hall. “Besides the crazies, I mean.”

                “Maker knows what’s living in these ruins.” Alistair shrugs, and Ariah watches Lenora try very hard not to look at him. “No one even knows they exist.”

                “Except the crazies.” Arryn amends.

                “And us, I suppose.” He grants.

                “That’s what I just said.”

                “Dragons are said to live in the mountains.” Lenora offers, and likely regrets it the moment Arryn’s face lights up in a grin. Her eyes twinkle – _twinkle_ – with delight, as she gasps.

                “Could you _imagine_?” She breathes. “To actually _see_ a dragon, sweet Creators.”

                “Ah yes, eaten by a dragon.” Ariah groans. “Sounds marvelous.”

                “But they’re so big, and powerful, and _majestic –_ ” And she’s still talking about the scaly beasts by the time they reach the heavy door. No one is quite sure how to feel when the key fits, or when Ariah and Lenora push the doors in. They open the way to the rest of the temple as Arryn continues her narrative.

                Her ceaseless questions about the inhabitants of the ruins are quickly answered, though they aren’t the answers she’d been hoping for. They’re met with dozens of cultists and a few angry ash wraiths before the halls eventually give way to a series of caverns. The caves only grow harder to navigate the further they delve; a few wrong turns, and they’re face to face with the answer to Arryn’s final question.

                The male drakes are much smaller than the high dragons of legend, but their teeth are just as sharp. Arryn wants to just watch – to observe them – but they seem much more interested in eating her. They spit gouts of flame, making it difficult to evade the heat in close quarters, but they’re not invincible.

                While the elements aren’t her forte, she can still use Winter’s Grasp effectively enough to slow the creatures down. She manages to avoid burning holes in her robes – which is a victory in and of itself – but Lenora isn’t so lucky. Fortunately, she’s wearing more than glorified drapes. Though her armor doesn’t do much to prevent the heat from irritating her burns, and the warrior’s aggravation only grows from there.

                First the cultists, then the wraiths, now _dragons_ , and – she spies Alistair out of the corner of her eye and swallows a cry of frustration. He couldn’t just stay in camp, as she’d asked? He’s always going on about how he doesn’t want to lead, how he’d defer to her judgement, how _he’ll look to her,_ but when she actually gives him an order? Oh! Suddenly he’s not interested in listening! She can barely focus on what’s happening _right in front of her_ while he’s here. How is she supposed to work when all she can think about is –!

                Oh. Oh no.

                She thrusts her sword into the chest of the last drake, giving an angry twist and ignoring the sickening snap as the beast dies. She needs to find a better outlet, she knows. It’s only a matter of time before she runs out of monsters to kill in her fury. She’s not even sure when this _became_ an outlet for her, but it can’t possibly be healthy. Better than going around punching everyone who irritates her, she supposes, but –

                “It’s a dead end.” Ariah announces, and this day just gets better and better. She manages to convince Arryn that, no, she doesn’t need to collect _every_ loose dragon scale, and they retrace their steps, _again_. They follow another path, and eventually find an incline that doesn’t seem entirely familiar. They climb up, relishing the cool mountain air that suggests they’re to be free of the caverns at last, and groan when the path empties into a large cavern.

                It is not, unsurprisingly, empty. 

                “Stop!” The man shouts, and his fellows shuffle eagerly behind him. “You will go no further!” His armor glints blindingly in the sun that filters through an exit to the mountaintop, and Lenora curses at being so close to freedom.

                The battle axe sitting threateningly at his side doesn’t do much to assuage her disappointment, either.

                “You have defiled our temple!” He rages. “You have spilled the blood of the faithful and slaughtered our young!”

                “Is he talking about the dragons?” Arryn asks quietly, a curious brow piqued as she eyes the man.

                “No more!’ He calls. “You will tell me now, intruder, why you have done all this. Why have you come here?”

                “Tell me your name,” Lenora insists, because she’s _not_ going to just stab him and be done with it. “And I will tell you why we are here.” Her hand wavers dangerously over the hilt of her sword, just in case, and she wonders why they ever bother sheathing their weapons at all.

                “I am Father Kolgrim,” He begins warily. “Leader and guide to the Disciples of Andraste.”

                Lenora pointedly ignores Ariah’s long-winded, “ _Ugh, shemlen_.”

                “Kill us,” Kolgrim sneers at the elf, who rolls her eyes in response. “And you will face Andraste. She will smell our blood, and the blood her children on you, and her wrath will be great.”

                “ _Her_ children?” Arryn hums, despite the poor timing of it. “Is Andraste a dragon too?” She couldn’t be, could she? All the books said –

                “She is _so much more_! She is even more glorious than all of the Old Gods combined!”

                “I don’t know what’s happening anymore.” The elven mage sighs, toying with her robes and clutching her staff a little tighter.

                “The prophet Andraste has overcome death itself, and has returned to Her faithful in a form more radiant than you can imagine! Not even the Tevinter Imperium could hope to slay Her now! What hope do you have?”

                “Honestly?” Lenora sighs, and glances back to Ariah with a confirming nod. Kolgrim’s men continue their anxious fidgeting, waiting for something. An order, she suspects, that Kolgrim has yet to issue. She has a feeling it won’t be a cease and desist. They’ve killed off a sizable number of their people just to get up here; he won’t just let them walk away. There isn’t a clean way out of this, not that she can see, and she hopes she’ll see a day when she can talk her way out of confrontations again. “Not a whole lot.”

                Then her sword is sliding beneath his breastplate, and all hell breaks loose. The man closest to them sputters, an arrow lodged in his throat, and a mage across the cavern screams as she writhes in pain. She stumbles, clutching at her chest, towards one of her comrades, and pleads for help before her flailing stops. The other mage, rightfully wary, is shocked to witness his fellow explode in a brilliant blue light, her blood coating his face as he heaves. But it isn’t just light, it seems, as the moment it touches his flesh, he echoes her cries of pain.

                Arryn watches in morbid satisfaction. She doesn’t like killing people – she loathes it, in fact – but she can’t help the pride that swells in her chest at a spell well-cast. Spirit spells _are_ her forte, and they can do just as much damage as primal ones if she says so herself. She’s been trying to perfect the Walking Bomb since Irving granted her leave of the tower, but no one had actually exploded until now.

                It’s pretty disgusting, actually.

                Lenora isn’t as distracted by human combustion as she pushes Kolgrim back to withdraw her sword. He falls back, stumbling over his dead follower, and she’s forced to leave him as a woman charges from her right. She manages to avoid a mace to the head, and levels the soldier with a hefty kick before she can duck away.

                Ariah, for her part, doesn’t have any trouble finding targets. She fells another mage as Alistair holds off soldiers to give her ground. There’s only one spellcaster left now, though he seems less inclined to accept an arrow. Instead, he slams the end of his staff in the ground, ripping a boulder from the cavern floor and sending it hurling towards the group. Ariah shouts a warning as she fires her arrow, but it comes a moment too late.

                Alistair hits the ground as a horn sounds off – and _really,_ he thinks, _again?_ Lenora finally slits her foe’s throat, kicking her aside to return to Kolgrim as the horn slides from his hands. He grins up at her with bloody teeth, and she resists the urge to meet them with her boot.

                “You will feel Her wrath like none before.” He spits, much too proud for a man who’s using his last breath to goad her on. “You cannot stop the _might_ of –”

                His words die in his throat as her family’s blade cuts it open. And she gives him another kick, just because she can. She spins to see Ariah dispatch the last standing cultist as Arryn helps Alistair to his feet. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears as she stalks over to his thrown shield, retrieving it from where it had landed when he’d been hit. She analyzes the dents in his armor – from stone colliding with _his body_ – as she marches to him, and begs the panic to ease when she sees that he can still move just fine.

                “I’m going to be very bruised tomorrow.” He tries to joke, prodding at the impacted areas. “Do you think Owen will fix this for me?” He frowns when he doesn’t get a response from her; no smile, nor chuckle of exasperated amusement. She simply clutches the shield in her hands, as though it might disappear from her grasp, and stares at the dent now marring the metal. Her look worries him, spurs him into action, and he closes the distance between them with a few short strides.

                She won’t look at him, even now, so he takes an extra step for good measure. Or, perhaps, to push his luck. He’s not really sure.

                “I’m fine.” He assures quietly, wishing she would just _look up_. “Hey, _I’m fine_.” It’s an intimate moment, despite their surroundings, and he knows _– he knows –_ it’s not the time. But their companions busy themselves with other tasks, and he’s tired of pretending like there isn’t _something_ here. It’s never the time, and they might not get a ‘later’. He’d almost kissed her in his tent just a few days ago – he’d been so close – and now? He knows he’s worried her, hates the guilt that coils in his gut because of it, but she won’t even –

                “Don’t lose this.” She says suddenly, and her green eyes burn as they finally meet his. He feels like he can breathe again with the relief of it, and he understands her meaning. _Be careful_ , she doesn’t say. _Stay safe. Don’t do anything stupid._

                “I won’t.” He promises, and it’s all he can do not to rectify his earlier mistake and kiss her right here. Not his most romantic impulse, he’ll admit, but his options are limited. If not now, when?

                Except he hasn’t even gotten his shield out of the way before the ground shudders. Something rumbles above them, shaking the cavern, and he’s about to throw a fucking fit, he swears to –

                “What in Thedas was that?!” Arryn cries, spinning towards the mountain exit. Stone dislodges from the ceiling, and the group takes off as the tremors continue, avoiding falling rocks as they go. The fresh air, while a relief, is frigid – but the cold is not the greatest shock.

                “Is that…?”

                “Yes.”

                “Oh sweet Maker.”

                “Actually,” Arryn points out, rather unhelpfully. “They think she’s Andraste.”

                “Arryn, really not the time.” Ariah whispers harshly.

                “The way I see it,” The mage retorts. “We may not have much time left.”

* * *

> _though i am flesh, your light is ever present,_
> 
> _and those i have called, they remember,_
> 
> _and they shall endure._
> 
> _i shall sing with them the chant, and all will know,_
> 
> _we are yours, and none shall stand before us._
> 
> **_\- trials 15:1_ **


	12. Chapter XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lenora receives a gift. Ariah receives something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm khintress on tumblr! Come yell at me!

>   _my creator, judge me whole:_
> 
> _find me well within your grace_
> 
> _touch me with fire that i be cleansed_
> 
> _tell me i have sung to your approval_
> 
> **_\- transfigurations 12:4_ **

* * *

Lenora is reminded, quite ungraciously, of the ogre atop the Tower of Ishal. The dragon is angry, deadly, and _entirely_ too large. She’s massive, towering over them so ominously, it seems more beneficial to simply let her eat them. What chance do they have against talons the size of their heads? Or wings that create gusts of wind strong enough to knock them down? Never mind her _teeth_. This creature is exactly like the dragons of legend – except she’s _not_ a legend. She’s real. And they’ve really made a mess of it this time, haven’t they?

                Ariah, for all her training, does not care for this shit _at all_. They spend more time running about, trying not to get crushed, than they do actually fighting the thing. She manages to get a few arrows underneath her scales, but it does little to slow the beast down. She doesn’t even have time to line up a proper shot before she has to move again. It feels like the worst game of tag she’s ever played, at least until the dragon takes to the skies and grants them a few moments of peace.

                Then, however, she’s showering the mountain with flame, and that’s not really very peaceful, is it?

                Ariah tries to think, to wrack her brain for something, _anything_ , that can help them. She remembers being a fledgling hunter, looking for birds, but –

                “Creators,” She prays absently, readying another arrow. “Don’t let me be crushed.” She takes careful aim, tries to account for the dragon’s movement, and releases. The arrow flies toward the beast in what seems like slow motion, striking its mark and tearing through the vulnerable membrane of a wing. The hole widens with the force of keeping the creature airborne, and Ariah fires another shot, calling for Leliana to follow suit.

                A downed bird, she remembers, is a dead bird. Finally, with her wings compromised, the dragon is forced to land. Her collision with the mountain shakes the ground, knocking the party back as she rumbles with a deafening roar. It’s disorienting, and Ariah drops her bow to cover her ears as snow slides down the peaks. 

                Lenora shouts something that sounds vaguely like ‘distract her’, and Ariah scrambles to retrieve her bow before diving behind a weathered outcrop. She glances to Arryn, also tucked behind the rock, and wonders if this is as exciting as the girl had hoped. Had to go rambling about great winged beasts, hadn’t she? Ariah had survived the darkspawn sickness, the Joining, Ostagar, and Redcliffe – just to be eaten by a dragon? She thinks the fuck not, thanks.

                “Barriers!” Oh, she hears Lenora well enough that time, and Arryn’s quick to comply. Ariah sees, more than feels, the shimmering film envelop her, and turns to see the same light encasing Alistair as he engages with the dragon. She takes the opportunity to make a precise shot, aiming for the eyes, and hopes she doesn’t draw attention to herself as she fires.

                It’s hard to hit something you can’t see, she figures.

                It’s not a direct hit, but she’s close, and the creature screeches its displeasure as she fires another three in rapid succession. Then Alistair is at its feet, raking his sword across its legs, and Ariah is confident that the dragon has more pressing matters to attend to than her. She has a moment to stop, to survey the battlefield, and tries to make note of where everyone is.

                Arryn is still next to her, tossing out spirit spells and maintaining barriers. Wynne is across the clearing with Leliana, having managed to find some higher ground out of the dragon’s way. Alistair, of course, is basically beneath the beast’s feet. It’s a good thing Wynne is keeping his barrier up; if the man gets hurt again, Lenora might never let him leave camp.

                The warrior woman herself is a ways back, crouched and looking as if she’s about to – _about…to…_

                “Wha – _wait_!”

                But Lenora is too far – or, more likely, she doesn’t care – and as soon as the dragon lifts a leg to swat at Alistair, she’s off. She sprints for the beast, barely evading sword and claws alike as she dashes past Alistair and thrusts her sword into the dragon’s soft underbelly. Her feet sweep out from under her, and she raises her shield as a meager defense against the dragon’s freed guts as she allows momentum to propel her forward. She slides through the snow, dragging her blade with her, and slices the beast open. It stumbles, roaring again, and Lenora rolls out from under the creature before she can be thoroughly squished.

                The snow is stained a bright red as the dragon writhes, unable to take flight on her damaged wings. She rounds on Lenora, now drenched in thick, pungent blood, and barely misses Alistair with a sweep of her tail. The other Warden takes advantage of the distraction, and drives his sword under the scales where the dragon’s hind leg meets her body. He feels something snap, sinew or a tendon – or something as equally disgusting – and the beast rears her head in agony. A firestorm erupts through her fangs, dazzling in the crisp mountain air, and Lenora scrambles to her feet.

                Ariah wants to look away – she’s not really interested in watching her friend get chewed up – but she can’t manage to divert her eyes. Lenora manages to raise her sword again as the dragon’s head comes down, and Ariah’s sure they’re going to need to elect a new leader. 

                But Lenora’s blade punctures through the dragon’s jaw instead, ripping into its skull, and Ariah merely blinks in the eerie silence that follows. The creature trembles, finally collapsing, and everyone catches their breath. It lies there, a monument to their tremendous luck – or tremendously poor luck – and Ariah actually laughs.

                “Holy shit.” Lenora pants, tossing her gauntlets down to wipe the blood from her eyes. She’s coated in the stuff, head to toe, and she looks – well, she looks like a hot mess.

                “We just killed a dragon.” Ariah says, disbelieving, an honest grin tugging at her lips. “An actual dragon. We killed an _actual dragon_.”

                “Like, a _big_ one.” Arryn nods, perching her staff against the stone outcrop. She gathers her hair in her hands, trying to keep it out of her face as she takes long, deep breaths.

                “Is everyone alright?” Lenora calls, and confirmations of life ring out through the clearing. “Really?” She frowns. “No one got hurt? Someone gets stabbed every other week, but we fight a dragon, and _no one gets hurt_?”

                “Ugh,” Alistair groans with a grimace, and all eyes move to the carcass. “Look at what spilled out of that thing.”

                The contents of the dragon’s stomach litter the mountaintop, slick with blood and bile. Bits of metal stick out of the snow; sections of armor and weapons, even a trinket or two.

                “Hey! There’s a bow in there!” Arryn gasps delightfully, like the dragon’s gut is a market and not the gruesome end for countless poor sods. She’s quick to approach the pile, leaning around to see what other treasures she can find.

                “By the Creators, don’t _touch that_.” Ariah sighs, shaking her head when Arryn frowns at her in disappointment. She watches the mage trudge off, circling to the wound Alistair had inflicted instead. She grabs a hold of a loose scale, twisting and yanking with a series of grunts until she manages to pry the thing free. She smiles proudly at her trophy, and gets to work on the next one.

                Ariah leaves her to it, if only for a moment, to make sure Lenora can actually see through the blood on her face.

                “I’ve swallowed more blood in the last three months…” She’s grumbling to herself, shoving her hands in the snow in a vain attempt to clean them.

                “Tasty?” Ariah quips.

                “Better not be poisonous.” Is her only response. Ariah chuckles, still a tad euphoric from their victory, and gathers up some snow. She retrieves Lenora’s gauntlets, and does her best to tidy them as Arryn marches over.

                “Done already?” She cocks a brow, but Arryn only bends down, grasps Lenora’s sword in both hands, and spins around again.

                “I need to borrow this.” Is all she says, and heads off.

                “Is…is she using my sword to carve up the dragon?” Lenora blinks.

                “Looks like.” Ariah confirms, and returns to her task.

                “But it…it’s not…”

                “So where do you suppose the ashes are, then?” The elf muses, tossing a handful of snow into the other woman’s hair. Lenora startles, cringing at the cold, and glares up at her friend.

                “If they’re here?” She purposely ignores Ariah’s cheeky smile. “That way.” She points to the far side of the clearing, to yet another cave, and returns to her makeshift bath. She keeps a careful eye on Arryn too, though she isn’t as subtle about as she thinks she is.

                “Well?” Ariah insists, giving her shoulder a whack with one of the gauntlets. “Come on, then.”

                “I think it’s in my nose.”

                “Lenora.”

                “It’s in my lungs, Ariah. I can feel it.”

                “ _Come on._ ” She hauls the woman to her feet, shoving the gauntlets at her – ignoring Lenora’s indignant ‘I’m not putting these back on’ – and leaving to retrieve Arryn before the girl stabs herself.

                 After properly collecting everyone, an extensive collection of dragon scales included, they make their way to the far ruin. The temple seems to be intact, at least on the inside. They make their way up a set of stairs that _aren’t_ falling apart for once, and navigate down a dark corridor only to be faced with another obstacle.

                “I bid you welcome, pilgrims.” The armored man greets, and Ariah throws her hands up like she’s about to turn around and climb down the mountain.

                “We’ve come for the Ashes.” Lenora says quickly, all too aware of just how much blood she’s caked in. Not a great first impression, all things considered.

                “You’ve come to honour Andraste.” His voice is ethereal, echoing from a place far from where he’s standing. “And you shall, if you prove yourself worthy.”

                “We just killed a dragon,” Ariah groans disbelievingly. “Doesn’t that count?”

                “It is not my place to decide your worthiness.”

                “Oh, of course not.”

                “The Gauntlet does that.” The Guardian spares Ariah a glance, but little else. “If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not…”

                “I can imagine, thanks.” The elf sighs, and she knows they’re never getting to that Urn.

* * *

                Lenora hates this place. _Hates it_. From the manic cultists to the dragons to the nosy Guardian who’d picked at their wounds as if they didn’t still hurt. She’s had a slew of bad days recently, but today? Today is by far the worst. Who was he to announce her failings like idle gossip? And not just hers; they’d all gotten an uncomfortable insight into each other’s minds, and formed an unspoken agreement to never bring it up again.

                Then, there were riddles. Eight ghosts – _actual ghosts –_ with riddles to answer before they could continue. It’s a good thing they brought Arryn, who was absolutely beside herself with the challenge, otherwise she’d have to learn how to kill someone who’s already dead.

                And now – the icing on the cake that is her _positively horrendous day,_ Lenora almost wishes she’d let the dragon eat her. The Gauntlet, she’s learned, is impossibly cruel. Perhaps it’s because she’s the first through the door, or the easiest to read – or maybe the Gauntlet knew when she’d lied earlier, when she’d told the Guardian that she hadn’t failed her parents by escaping with Duncan. Maybe it’s punishing her – that’s certainly what it feels like.

                “My dearest daughter.”

                And she almost cries at the sound of it. It’s her father’s face, but she hadn’t expected to hear his voice. Not here, not ever again. But there he is, standing so proudly before her, and she feels the tide crashing against the floodgates. She can barely speak of him, how can she speak _to_ him?

                “You’re not here.” She whispers, her own voice strange to her ears as she struggles to meet his eye. “You’re…”

                “You know that I am gone.” He nods, smiling sadly as Lenora struggles to keep her composure. “And all your prayers and wishes will not bring me back. Pup,”

                She clenches her jaw at the nickname, feeling her throat close as the first tears spill over her cheeks.

                “I know you miss me.” He says, and she wants so desperately to hold him that the pain of it steals the breath from her lungs. “But my death, and my life, no longer have a hold on you.”

                Who decided that? She wants to demand why her own father’s _murder_ shouldn’t have some bearing on her life.

                “This is how it should be.” He looks like he wants to reach for her, and she wants to scream. She wants to feel his hand on her hair, his lips on her forehead – he wants him to _be here_. “Set your eyes on the horizon, Pup. Do not look back, and do not falter.” He softens as he looks around her, and she recognizes that he must be looking at her companions. What must they think of her, crying like a child over a spectre? She wonders if they can even see him. “You have such a long road ahead of you,” And she swears that’s remorse in his tone. He can’t possibly feel guilty about this – he didn’t ask for any of this. “You must be prepared.”

                He reaches out, grasping her hand in his, and she shudders with an embarrassing cry. It takes all of her willpower to remain upright, to not fall apart at his touch, and she’s desperately thankful she never put her bloodied gauntlets back on. He’s _warm_ , despite being a shade of the man who raised her. He’s warm and solid and he feels _real_. Her tears come without hindrance, and she feels him press something into her palm, but she can’t focus on anything beyond his eyes. _Those are his eyes_. They’re exactly as she recalls, bright and kind and comforting. How has this place captured her father so completely, that even _she_ wonders if he is real?

                “I leave this in your hands.” He speaks again, wrapping her fingers around his gift as she prays for him to hold her hand, just a little longer. “I know you will do great things with it.”

                “I love you.” She says desperately, a whimper in her throat as his warmth fades. “ _I love you_.”

                And then he’s gone, and she’s left clutching the pendant in her hand as though it might disappear as well. She can’t bring herself to look at it, or to bother wiping the tears from her face. She hasn’t felt so helpless since waking up in Flemeth’s hut, thinking everyone she’d ever known had died and she’d been left to conquer the Blight alone.

                A hand falls on her shoulder, startling her into tensing before she realizes that it’s Alistair who stands beside her. She can’t meet his eyes, but she reaches up with her free hand to grasp at his, surprised to find flesh instead of metal. He must have taken his gauntlet off, and she’s not quite sure what to make of that. But she relishes in the touch, turning her face and pressing her lips to his knuckles as he squeezes her shoulder. She almost chuckles when Arryn pops over her other one, trying to sneak a peek at whatever trinket the spectre has left. Lenora peers back at Ariah, catching her eye. She knows that the emotion she finds there is more comforting than her touch.

                Today is terrible, and this place is cruel, and perhaps – she hopes – she’ll be better for it.

* * *

                “ _I hate this_!” Ariah screams, wishing she’d followed Darian’s lead – _that_ thought leaves a sour taste in her mouth – and stayed at camp. She nocks another arrow, trying not to think of the logistics of it when the projectile rips through the spectral plating of Lenora’s shadow self.

                “I am your death!” The shade yells back, and Lenora gasps, affronted.

                “I do not sound like that.” She asserts, as if there aren’t _more important things_ to be worried about right now. Luckily, her focus is quickly reasserted as Leliana’s doppelganger sends an arrow ricocheting off of her shield. Then she’s back in the fray, sword ready, and Ariah manages to slink to the back of the room for more distance.

                Their healer – she doesn’t want to call her Wynne; it feels wrong – has already been taken care of, courtesy of Alistair. Real Arryn is gaining the upper hand on shadow Arryn, although they’re mostly yelling at each other, from what Ariah can tell. The spectral warriors are presently engaged with Lenora, though she has Leliana and Wynne as support as Alistair advances on their archers.

                Ariah succeeds in slotting an arrow through a break in fake Lenora’s armor, and the shade dissipates with an angry screech. That leaves Alistair, Arryn, Leliana, and herself, so she rounds on her own spectral form with surprising disdain. It’s strange to see herself, wraithlike yet so clearly Ariah. It’s unsettling, beyond comprehension, and she readies an arrow if only so she can stop looking at the creature.

                She’s not the only one firing, however, and her shadow releases an arrow before she can. She doesn’t think much of it – Lenora and Alistair carry shields for a reason – until a frantic gasp nearly knocks her on her ass. She turns in time to watch Leliana hit the ground, the spectral arrow gone but its damage clearly done. There’s a hole, glistening and crimson, in her right shoulder, and Ariah cannot comprehend the panic that seizes in her chest.

                She nocks and fires three arrows at once before she even realizes she’s done it, not bothering to watch her shadow form die before sprinting to Leliana. She’s backed herself into the wall, resting her head against the stone as she holds a hand to her shoulder. Blood slips through her fingers, and Ariah drops to her knees to apply pressure herself. Leliana lets out a strangled sound, but still manages a grateful smile.

                How she could possibly be smiling, Ariah has no idea.

                “You’re fine.” She assures, although she has no proof of that, either. Her heart is beating much too fast, and her limbs don’t feel like they’re entirely under her control. Even her own voice sounds foreign. “At least we don’t have to pull out the arrow, yeah?” Was that a joke? Did she just try to make a joke, now, of all times? What’s wrong with her?

                The bard laughs – a quiet, breathy sound – and it’s a pity laugh. Ariah knows it is. No one would –

                But then Leliana’s free hand is pulling at the back of her neck, and all semblance of thought halts when her lips press against Ariah’s with joyous simplicity. It’s a kiss, the elf realizes. Leliana is kissing her.

                _Leliana is – !_

It’s quick and chaste and _that’s good_ because Ariah hasn’t the faintest clue what to do. Did Leliana hit her head? Does she _know_ she’s kissing Ariah? Not that she has all that much time to respond, because Leliana is pulling away just as quickly.

                “Thank you.” She breathes, and Ariah thinks maybe _she’s_ the one who hit her head. She doesn’t do much besides blink at the woman, then sputter some absolute gibberish.

                “Ah, yep, mhmm…okay…” She nods distractedly, her mouth suddenly very dry. “I just…you know…pressure…” She stares down at her hands on Leliana’s shoulder as though to emphasize whatever it is her scrambled brain is trying to say.

                “Are you alright?” Lenora’s voice comes from over her shoulder, and she swallows thickly as Wynne appears beside her, hands already glowing.

                “Yes.” Leliana says, suddenly smiling with such light, Ariah has to avert her eyes. “Yes, I think I am.”

* * *

                Alistair Theirin is not an unintelligent man. He’s received a formal education, combat training, and the same physical and mental regiments that all prospective Templars go through. He knows more than he lets on, surely, but none of that seems to help him in this damned place.

                Their ragtag family has been put through all sorts of hell. The only upside to fighting his doppelganger is the knowledge that at least he’s hard to kill. Arryn just about had a meltdown about her shadow form’s skill in primal spells, but at least Ariah is a better shot than her counterpart.

                Don’t think he missed that fun little aside, either – he _knew_ he caught Leliana gazing longingly at the elf once or twice.

                Then, of course, there’s the _damned puzzle_ that takes them entirely too long to solve. Six people shouting at each other to stand on different tiles just to create a solid bridge that _may_ not drop them to their deaths. Really, one wrong step and someone could have died – what kind of puzzle is that? Andraste only favoured the clever, it seems.

                And now? Well, now they’re here, and all their tribulations seem to dwindle away as they stare, dumbstruck.

                “I…I didn’t believe…” Wynne whispers in reverence.

                “That’s…I mean, those are actually…” Lenora agrees.

                The Urn of Sacred Ashes sits on a raised dais, atop a set of massive steps, in front of a stone-carved rendering of the prophet herself. It’s a straight shot to the miracle they came so far to find. It can’t be that simple, can it? It would be so easy to just walk up those stairs and claim a pinch of the Ashes.

                It _would_ be, if not for the wall of flame that erupts from the floor, from one end of the room to the other. Somehow, Alistair doubts they’ll be getting around that.

                “Oh _come on_!” Lenora cries, clearly flustered as she stalks towards the only object on their side of the room. “This altar better give me more than a damn riddle. I swear, if I have to solve one more puzzle, I’ll…” She reaches the altar and slams both hands onto either side of its face, scanning the stone for any kind of instruction. It’s little more than a dusty slab, cracked from age and presumably the heat that now warms their skin.

                “Ah ha!” She announces. “Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit.”

                “Sounds like Andraste wants us to run around her resting place naked.” Ariah huffs sarcastically, crossing her arms as Lenora purses her lips and rolls her eyes.

                “King and slave,” She continues, casting a pointed look at her elven friend to shut her up. “Lord and beggar, be born anew in the Maker’s sight.”

                “She doesn’t want me to take off my robe, does She? I barely have anything on underneath!’

                “Thank you, Arryn, for that insightful look into your wardrobe.”

                “I don’t like this either.” Alistair muses, rubbing the back of his neck. “I feel much safer with a coat of metal between me and the flames that will burn the flesh from my bones.”

                “I’m not getting naked for your prophet.” Ariah states outright, shaking her head.

                “ _Guys_.” Lenora cocks a brow, glancing between them and the Urn only a few feet away. “Come on. After everything we went through to get here?”

                Silence.

                She looks to the flames, and Alistair can’t say he blames her for the panic that overcomes her expression. He isn’t too thrilled at the prospect either – he likes his clothes where they are, thanks.

                “Someone? Please?” She tries again, a little more desperate than before.

                “Nope.” Ariah refuses. “This is all you.”

                “I…” She turns to the fire, and squeezes her eyes shut. “I can’t.”

                “Sure you can. Just strip and jump into a raging fire.” The elf snorts.

                “No, Ariah. I _can’t_.” And Alistair’s heart stops with the urgency of it. She’s serious, he realizes – and it’s more than reluctance. It’s not just panic he sees now; it’s fear, and his heart clenches at the sight. She’s never afraid – never enough to have it written so plainly on her face. She reaches for her hip – for her sword, he thinks – but she just rests her hand over her armor and looks back at the flames. 

                “Lenora,” He tries, but she’s distressed as she cuts him off.

                “ _I can’t._ Please, I…”

                “I’ll go.”

                All eyes turn to Leliana, and Ariah’s quick to argue.

                “You just got shot.” She reminds the bard. “You’re not walking through a wall of fire.”

                “I don’t recall asking for permission.” The redhead chuckles in response, but she clearly thinks it’s funnier than Ariah does.

                “It’s _fire_.” She states.

                “Very astute.”

                “ _Leliana_.”

                “Help me out of this, would you?” She ignores the elf’s protests, reaching for the straps of her leather armor, and that effectively shuts Ariah up. “I can’t move my arm very well.”

                Ariah blinks, once, twice, and finally obliges. Her ears strain a bright red that even her darker skin can’t hide, and she avoids all eye contact as she works at the fastenings. Her fingers are clumsy and sort of numb, but she manages to get the latches undone before helping Leliana out.

                She’s wearing a tunic underneath, and Ariah almost lets herself breathe until she realizes that her legs are entirely bare. No breeches. Just…bare. Yep, there they are. Right there. Bare. And impossible long. And distractingly –

                “Be careful.” Alistair says, and Ariah blinks back to awareness. What’s happening?

                “Thank you.” Leliana smiles, but she doesn’t seem worried. In fact, she strides to the wall without another word. She hesitates for only a moment before taking a step, and Ariah’s heart leaps into her throat.

                The woman had kissed her not an _hour ago_ and now she’s setting herself on fire. That accurately sums up Ariah’s love life, she decides.

                Only Leliana doesn’t catch fire. She glides through the flames like they aren’t even there, and then, they aren’t. The fire flickers out and Leliana is left standing on the far side of the room without a scratch.

                Or her new scar, Ariah realizes with a start. Her arrow wound has disappeared completely, and she does not like that at all. What mystic nonsense is responsible for that?

                “You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet.”

                They all nearly jump from their skin as the Guardian appears behind them, and Ariah rushes to Leliana with her armor as though she might need protecting from the spirit.

                “You have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourselves worthy, pilgrims. Approach the Sacred Ashes.” Then, before anyone can respond, the Guardian ignites in a radiant white light that has everyone scrambling to cover their eyes.

                “Wha – I – _ugh_.” Ariah groans, shoving the leather at Leliana awkwardly. “Put – put this – get dressed.” She stammers out, and stomps away. She hears Leliana laugh in response, and tries to stop the stupid grin that tugs at her lips.

                _Feelings,_ she realizes. _Since when?_

“This is it.” Lenora murmurs, and Ariah’s grateful for the distraction. The warrior takes a tentative step, as though she’s afraid she may trip up the stairs on her way to Andraste’s urn.

                “I didn’t think anyone could succeed in finding Andraste’s final resting place…” Alistair says, so softly Ariah isn’t sure she’s meant to hear it. “But here – here She is.”

                “We did it.” Arryn grins. The Maker isn’t Ariah’s god, nor Arryn’s, she’s sure – but disbelief doesn’t belittle the enormity of their situation. Maker or no, Andraste appears to have been a real woman, with a mortal body and a seemingly immortal soul. What sits in front of her is evidence enough of the woman’s existence, and Ariah finds herself at a loss for words as Lenora lifts the lid off of the Urn.

                The woman visibly hesitates, almost reluctant to disturb the Ashes. Arryn passes her a square of cloth, and Ariah urges her to do what they came to do. Just grab up a bit of magic ash and save a dying Arl.

                A miracle. Supposed miracle. That’s why they travelled all this way, isn’t it? Scaled mountains, fought dragons, walked through fire – for a myth. Yet there they are, cradled in Lenora’s lands as she clutches them like they might blow away with one wayward gust of wind.

                They might, Ariah figures.

                There’s no guarantee they even possess healing qualities; they could just be ashes for all they know. Just the dust of a long dead woman. But after everything they’ve done – every battle they’ve survived, every foe they’ve conquered. After every trial, every obstacle they’ve overcome, well –

                What’s one more miracle?

* * *

>   _as the moth sees light and goes toward flame,_
> 
> _she should see fire and go towards light._
> 
> _the veil holds no uncertainty for her,_
> 
> _and she will know no fear of death, for the maker_
> 
> _shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword_
> 
> **_\- transfigurations 10 (verse unknown)_ **


	13. Chapter XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arryn gets a shield. Lenora gets angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm khintress on tumblr! Come find me and we can scream and braid each other's hair.

>   _here, i decree_
> 
> _opposition in all things:_
> 
> _for earth, sky_
> 
> _for winter, summer_
> 
> _for darkness, light._
> 
> **_\- threnodies 5:5_ **

* * *

“I hope Genitivi comes to his senses.” Ariah says absently, watching the fire dwindle as the sun begins to rise through the trees. “It might have been easier to end him and be done with it, considering the alternative.” The Ashes aren’t meant to be a tourist attraction, she knows. They were hidden away for a reason.

                “I thought about it.” Lenora confesses, fiddling with the amulet around her neck. It sits next to a little vial of blood, the one given to her after the Joining, and Ariah resists the urge to touch her own as it rests against her chest. “I can only hope I didn’t make a mistake by letting him go.”

                “Funny world, where sparing the scholar may have been the wrong choice.” The elf huffs a laugh with a shake of her head. It’s too late to change their minds now, regardless. They’re only a few days from Redcliffe, and Ariah doubts the Arl has time for them to turn around now. Assuming he’s lasted this long, anyway.

                “Lenora?” Darian’s voice comes from behind them, and the pair swivel to address the mage. “I know you guys fought a dragon, and I _know_ Arryn has scales, but she won’t let me see them.”

                Ariah snorts, turning back around to face the fire as she cackles into her hand. Lenora manages to suppress her own laughter, watching Darian with patience.

                “And?” She inquires carefully. “What would you like me to do?”

                “Talk to her!” The man presses, clearly frustrated.

                “Oh no,” Lenora argues. “I handled the turnip crisis. Ask Alistair.”

                “I already did. He said he settled the last dispute and told me to ask you.”

                Ariah chokes and clutches at her sides as she shakes with laughter. Lenora tosses her a warning glance, but the elf can’t help it.

                “And what, pray tell, was the last dispute?”

                “The…ah…” Darian shuffles his feet, averting his eyes as the colour rises in his cheeks. “You know, the snake thing.”

                Lenora sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, and Ariah can’t breathe.

                “ _Fine_.” The warrior grinds out. “Where is she?” Darian points behind him, to the far side of camp, and Lenora begrudgingly sets off. Ariah can’t remember the last time she laughed so hard.

                Lenora finds it decidedly less humorous.

                Arryn is sitting on a rock at the edge of their clearing when Lenora finds her, fingers caught and tangled as she tries valiantly to comb them through her hair. It’s long, longer than Lenora’s, and the warrior reaches to touch the tight braid keeping her own hair from her face. Her mother had taught her – simple, but effective. The poor mage could likely use the same instruction.

                “Arryn,” She greets, and the girl startles from her task. “May I?” She gestures to Arryn’s web of hair, and the elf lets out a quiet ‘oh!’ before nodding profusely and yanking her fingers free. Lenora offers a smile, and moves to stand behind Arryn as she pulls her hair back over her shoulder.

                “I try to keep it up.” She assures sheepishly, tracing a pattern into the fabric of her robes. “But there’s too much, it never stays.”

                “It’s beautiful.” Lenora observes, watching the morning light play off the golden strands. “When did you last cut it?”

                “I set it on fire a few years ago.” Arryn shrugs, and Lenora can’t help the grin that tugs at her lips. “I mean, it was an accident. But that probably still counts, right?”

                “Probably.” Lenora agrees, and works out the last of the tangles. “I like my hair long too.”

                Then Arryn stills as Lenora gathers her hair in her hands and pulls it tightly away from her face. She’s methodical, and a steady silence falls over them as the mage enjoys the attention.

                It lasts about forty-five seconds.

                “They’re in my bag, you know.” She appeases, clicking her tongue as Lenora works. “The scales are, I mean. In my bag. If he really wants to see them that badly. Darian, that is. Because he – you know, he – you know.”

                “I do.” Lenora chuckles. “I imagine he can wait a bit longer.” Her fingers work diligently, precise and practiced. She pulls tight, but she’s careful not to hurt, and Arryn wonders if she could teach her how to do it. It’s a skill the elf never quite mastered – she can never get the braid secure enough. She always ends up tearing it out in frustration when strands inevitably fall freely into her face, despite her best efforts.

                She opens her mouth again, wanting to ask, but another question comes to mind that makes her hesitate. She doesn’t know how Lenora will react; will she not want to talk about it? Is it too soon? What if she _does_ want to talk about it, but everyone is too afraid to ask? What if she’s waiting for the excuse? What if she gets mad at Arryn for bringing it up at all?

                “Did your mother teach you?” She risks it anyway, and hopes she hasn’t shoved her foot firmly in her mouth. _This isn’t like Denerim_ , she tells herself. _It’s just the two of you here._

                Lenora stills, if briefly, and Arryn knows this is why Darian’s always told her she shouldn’t be allowed to gamble. She knew better, but she still asked. _She knew better_. But then Lenora answers – quietly – and Arryn can hear her smile even if she can’t see it.

                “Yes.” She breathes, returning to her ministrations. “I was a rambunctious child, always a mess. She made sure I could make myself presentable for guests.”

                “I have a hard time picturing you as a mess.” Arryn admits, smiling down at her hands as she draws a flower on her robes with her finger.

                “I was eleven years old with an older brother.” She chuckles in response. “You could rarely find me without scraped knees and bruised hands.”

                “And Fang?” The mage ventures a guess.

                “And Fang.” Lenora confirms fondly, glancing back to the hound as he keeps a careful eye on them from the dying fire. “He was a gift from Arl Eamon, actually.”

                “Oh?”

                “We used to visit Redcliffe when I was young. Eamon let me pick a hound to bring home with me.”

                “Do you think he’d let me pick a puppy?” Arryn gasps excitedly, squirming in her seat as Lenora steadies her head with a laugh. “Fang could have a friend! You’d still be his first and very best friend, of course – and I would look after it, obviously, but – _oh!_ ” She startles when Lenora sets a gentle hand on her shoulder to settle her.

                “All done.” She smiles, and Arryn is practically wiggling as she reaches back to run her fingers over the braid. It certainly feels like more than the simple braids she’s been attempting on herself.

                “Thank you!” She beams, and pulls the braid over her shoulder to properly admire it. “My head feels so secure.”

                “You’re very welcome.” Lenora adjusts a few strands at the top and nudges her shoulder. “Now go share your scales before Darian gets Ariah involved.”

                And then the warrior woman is off, heading back towards the fire. But, Arryn imagines – or hopes, perhaps – she walks a little lighter. A little softer. Maybe even a little happier.

* * *

                They should have known better, Darian thinks. Really, after everyone who’s tried to kill them, they should have expected the stranger in the middle of the road would lead them into an ambush. Damn them and their heroic tendencies – they’ll get themselves murdered one of these days.

                It doesn’t help much that the ambushers appear to be assassins. Wow, he can’t possibly think of anyone with enough money and motivation to hire professional killers to deal with them. Whoever could it be?

                Someone grabs his arm, and he nearly sends a bolt of lightning through their skull before he realizes that it’s Ariah. She drags him back, away from the fighting, and he barely has time to thank her before she’s gone, looking for a better vantage point. He’s suddenly very glad they didn’t split up; he can’t say he’s sad to have a few shields between the murderers with swords and his very stab-able body.

                “At least I got to see real dragon scales before I died.” He muses wryly, to no one in particular. He’s expecting a retort, a grumble or _something_ , but all that meets his ears is the clanging of metal. _Oh,_ he thinks, _that’s not good_. “Where’s Arryn?”

                 And then he’s panicking, because she should be here. _Right here_. With the rest of the mages and ranged support – _behind_ the melee fighters. His alarm is all too justified when he finds her on the other side of the clearing, sending out a wave of energy that knocks back the men surrounding her. She’s too far, flanked on either side – she won’t be able to defend herself for long. Especially not if the elven man, poised behind her with twin daggers, has anything to say about it.

                A cry escapes Darian’s throat – it sounds vaguely like her name, but he can’t really be sure – as he raises his staff, ready to electrocute the man right into his grave. He’s shocked, however, to find someone else beats him to it.

                Arryn cringes when she hears Darian shout from across the field. What could he be yelling about now? She’s a little busy at the moment! She yelps in surprise as someone takes advantage of her distraction, taking the opportunity to knock her staff from her hand. But the man promptly drops dead, an arrow in his throat, and Arryn spins around just in time to see a pair daggers ready to sink into her gut. She tries to conjure her barrier – _she’s not fast enough, she needs to be fast enough! –_ and she gasps a strangled breath as an actual, real, metal shield slides between her and her attacker. Then Lenora is in front of her, shouldering the blow, and Arryn could kiss the woman, honestly.

                “I was hoping there would only be a few of you.” The elven man speaks, sounding like he’s enjoying himself far more than Arryn is comfortable with. “Unfortunate that so many must die today.”

                “If you wanted a fair fight,” Lenora growls, catching his blade with one of her own. “You should have brought more men.” She thrusts her shield out, colliding with the elf’s face with enough force that Arryn swears she hears something crack. He’s on the ground, unconscious before the blood even begins trickling from his nose.

                “Holy shit.” Arryn breathes, watching Lenora as she scours the clearing. Her staff has been kicking away in the fighting, and there are still too many men for the mage to stay where she is. She lets out a startled squeak when Lenora’s shield is suddenly in her hands, and gapes at the warrior.

                “Get to the back.” Lenora demands. “ _Quickly._ ”

                “B-but –” She can’t take the shield – _it has blood on it, sweet Creators_ – not when she doesn’t even know how to use it! What if Lenora’s needs it? What if – ?

                “ _Now,_ Arryn!”

                Another exasperated cry and she’s pushing her way through the fighting. She shrieks in fear as she holds the shield in front of her face, hearing what sounds like an arrow deflect off of the metal. She hits someone, resists the urge to apologize, and knocks them aside in her rush to reach the edge of the crowd.

                “I hate this!” She screams, the sound rumbling in her chest as someone swings a sword at her. “I hate this!” It catches on the shield as she lowers it to block her legs, but she stumbles back and loses her footing. “ _I hate this!_ ” Then a bolt of lightning strikes her attacker, and he jerks back before convulsing in the dirt. Someone – _Darian,_ she thinks – pulls her to her feet.

                “Nice shield work.” He grins.

                “That was scary!” She looks back once she’s safely behind the melee line, trying to find Lenora as she clings to the woman’s shield. She sees her, roughly in the same place, only with Alistair at her back now. She doesn’t look to be struggling, despite missing half of her arsenal, but that doesn’t mean Arryn has to like it. “I don’t even know how to use a shield!”

                “Focus, Arryn!” She hears Ariah shout, and she sets aside her impudence for a moment. “Remember what you did to that mage in the temple?”

                _The Walking Bomb_ , she nods. How could she forget?

                “Now would be a _great_ time for that to happen again.”

                “But I don’t –” She halts, knowing that Ariah really doesn’t care if she has her staff or not. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to concentrate her energy regardless. The resulting spell isn’t as powerful – unsurprisingly – but it does the trick. The bright light hits one of the archers on the ridge, incapacitating him before simmering out. It does, however, create enough of a distraction for Darian to set the rest of them on fire – which is good too, she supposes. Then the smell of burning flesh fills the clearing, and no, maybe it’s not so good.

                “I thought he was supposed to explode.” Ariah says, clearly disappointed.

                “I think that’s only if the spell kills them.” Arryn explains, willing herself not to vomit up her lunch. “Otherwise it just, you know, really hurts.”

                “Fantastic.”

                “Hey, I don’t even have my staff! You try blowing someone up with your mind!”

                “I’ve been trying ever since I met you people.”

                It isn’t long before the last remaining assassins are dealt with, and people have a chance to catch their breath.

                “Everyone alright?” Alistair’s voice rings across the field, and declarations of confirmation echo back. Arryn makes short work of scurrying back to Lenora, who trades her shield for Arryn’s staff. She must have recovered it for her; she only hopes there’s no blood on it.       

                “Thanks for, ah, saving me.” The elf grips her staff, pursing her lips as she remembers just how close those daggers had come. “And for lending me your face-breaker.”

                Lenora huffs a surprised laugh, and claps Arryn on the shoulder.

                “Anytime.” She smirks. “Now let’s find out why we were attacked.”

                “I mean, I’m sure we could guess.” Darian shrugs.  

                “We could.” Lenora agrees. “Or,” She gives the mouthy assassin a swift kick in his side, and Ariah snorts.

                “What do you plan to do?” She cocks a brow. “You gonna kick the answers out of him?”

                Then he sputters, spitting up blood as he reaches wearily for his nose, and Ariah concedes.

                “Oh, apparently that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

                Lenora crouches down, leveling the elven man with a glare her mother would be proud of. Alistair voices a warning, but she simply reaches back to pat his knee as if that will appease him.

                “Ah, I…well I rather thought I’d wake up dead.” The assassin speaks, spitting out more blood as he sits up. He sounds Antivan, and Lenora knows all too well what that suggests. “Or, not wake up at all, as the case may be. You’ve kept me alive for a reason, I suspect? Surely, someone as skilled as yourself has a brain to match the muscle, yes?”

                “Oh good,” Lenora grins. “You’re a talker.” She shoves the end of her sword into the ground between the elf’s legs nonchalantly, bracing her other elbow on her knee. His eyes widen at the thinly veiled threat, a nervous smile playing on his lips. “Talk fast.”

* * *

                “He’s an assassin, Lenora. An assassin sent to kill _us_ , in case you missed that bit.”

                “I did not.” She assures.

                “Then care to explain why you’re letting him come with us? Or live, for that matter?” Alistair doesn’t understand, honestly. He knows they’re a strange group of people, but come on.

                “You heard him, Alistair. He can’t go back to the Crows, and we need all the help we can get.”

                “And if he tries to kill you again?” He demands, and he hates the words as they leave his lips. They have enough people trying to murder them without harbouring _an assassin_ in their camp!

                “I’m not too worried about that.” She says, and he wants to shake her until she comes to her senses.

                “That’s the problem!” He groans, not understanding how she _doesn’t understand_. “Why aren’t you worried?”

                She tilts her head towards him, a brilliant smile lighting up her eyes as she pokes at him.

                “I’ve got you to protect me.” She teases, and he can feel his ears burn as he sputters.

                “I-I’m just _concerned_.” He reasons, willing the colour to fade from his cheeks as she chuckles. “I know we need the help, but Lenora – he made an attempt on our lives –”

                “For coin.” She interrupts, still smiling. “It’s his job, and we just acquired his services free of charge. We have the upper hand, Alistair. He’s not stupid. He knows that nine against one are bad odds. Especially considering he had plenty of men the first time around.”

                “So you think we’ve scared him into docility?”

                “I think he knows which side he’s got a better chance on.” She corrects. “He said it himself – we’re the only thing standing between him and the Crows now. Why would he kill us just to risk being put down by another assassin?”

                “And if he’s lying?”

                “Then we kill him.”

                Alistair crosses his arms with a huff, and manages out, “I still don’t like it.”

                “I’m not asking you to.” Lenora assures, patting his arm. “I’m just asking you to trust me.”

                “Of course I trust you.” He’s quick to reply. “You know that.” And he pretends not to notice the smaller, more genuine smile that graces her lips. Doesn’t stop himself from thinking about it, though.

                Behind them, the newest addition to their party tries fruitlessly to persuade the elderly mage to mend his poor nose.

                “Surely it would only take a moment.” He praises. “A healer of your skill –”

                “Would not waste it on a man who tried to kill her not an hour earlier.” Wynne finishes for him, rejection as clear in her voice as the first twelve times he asked.

                “You’re just saying that because our dear leader stated, quite surely, that it would heal on its own, and that you needn’t waste your time.”

                “And I am inclined to agree with her.”

                “Fair enough.” Zevran grants, nodding as he slows his pace to distance himself from her. “I will cease my insistence.”

                “I shall count my blessings.” Wynne scoffs, and he thinks he may genuinely like the old woman. At the back of the group now, he considers his options. He could sneak off, he supposes, but he promised his services to the woman who had so graciously spared his life. There’s nothing behind him but a slow, likely quite painful death, and he doesn’t particularly like his chances wandering Ferelden alone, either. With the darkspawn, and all. No, his best chance for survival is to follow the suicide squad. He has a hard time appreciating the irony, in this exact moment.

                “Ah, Zevran,” He sighs to himself. “What have you gotten yourself into, my frie – _oh_!” He stumbles forward, clutching a hand to the back of his head as his skull throbs. The crack still rings in his ears as the small elven mage – he can’t be bothered to remember her name right now, all things considered – holds her staff out menacingly.

                She’d hit him, just thwacked him right over the head with a _metal stick,_ and she’s more than ready to do it again by the looks of it.

                “And what, pray tell, do I owe the pleasure?” He groans.

                “You looked shifty.” She answers. “Like you were going to make a run for it.”

                He wasn’t, but he’ll grant her the misconception.

                “Well consider the thought thoroughly shaken from my mind.” He assures, but she does little more than glower and motion for him to keep walking.

                Oh, this will be wonderful fun. He can just feel it.

* * *

                “I’m glad I’m not over there.” Ariah muses, glancing to where Lenora, Alistair, and Darian speak with – the now very much awake – Arl Eamon. None of them look all too please about it, from what she can see.

                “I’m just glad the Ashes worked.” Arryn huffs, setting her pack on the table and sitting beside the archer.

                “If they hadn’t, I would have almost gotten eaten for nothing.” Ariah gripes, but Arryn is quick to correct her.

                “Not for nothing!” She pats her bag cheerily. “There must be something we can do with these.”

                “And here I thought you were just going to carry them around for the rest of your life.”

                “Well that would be silly.” The mage chides, following Ariah’s gaze to observe their friends. “What do you suppose they’re talking about? Do you think they’ve decided what to do with Jowan?” Darian doesn’t look happy – none of them do – and if they’ve...if they’ve decided to –

                There’s nothing they can do for him, she realizes. She knows the Wardens can conscript people, but she doesn’t think her friends actually have that power, as technical junior members. Jowan’s on his own, wholly and completely, and whatever befalls him now is his own doing.

                She hates that the thought makes her sick to her stomach. She hates that she’s still letting him affect her like this. But he was their brother, and they’d loved him – that just hadn’t been enough for him.

                They hadn’t been enough.

* * *

                “What are you proposing, then?” Lenora asks, already fearing the answer. She knows they don’t have the resources to fight both the Blight and Loghain’s civil war at once, but they don’t have the time to fight them one at a time, either. They’re surrounded by conflict, and they need a plan – _now_.

                “We have no time to wage a campaign against him.” Eamon confirms. “Someone must surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance at fighting the darkspawn.”

                “Loghain must capitulate, then.” Lenora states, leaving no room for rebuttal. “I will not let him get away with what he’s done.”

                “I will spread word of his treachery.” The Arl appeases. “Both here and against the King. But it will be but a claim made without proof. They will give his allies pause, certainly, but we must combine it with a challenge Loghain cannot ignore.”

                “Are you referring to Alistair, brother?” Teagan sounds uncertain, apprehensive even, and Lenora shares the sentiment. She chances a glance towards her fellow Warden, and he looks paler than she’s ever seen him. He doesn’t want this, she knows. He would hate this. “Are you certain?”

                “I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative.”

                “So, wait.” Darian shakes his head, frowning at the noble as he pieces it together. “You intend to put Alistair forward as _king_?”

                “Teagan and I have a claim through marriage.” Eamon explains. “But we would seem opportunists, no better than Loghain. Alistair’s claim is by blood.”

                “I think, perhaps,” Lenora insists, her voice eerily calm. “That there is more than one party involved in a decision such as this, my lord.”

                “Thank you,” Alistair says hotly, his shock slipping into anger. Anger at Eamon, at Loghain, at the Blight – he has enough responsibility, he’s never asked for this.

                “You have a responsibility, Alistair.” Eamon pushes, cutting Alistair off, and Lenora feels her ire begin to boil. “Without you, Loghain wins. I would have to support him, for the sake of Ferelden. Is that what you want?” He sounds like a father reprimanding his child, and Lenora can’t explain the fury that settles in her blood at his tone. He would pressure Alistair into being king without a second thought? Condemn him to a miserable life because he’s afraid to face Loghain?

                “He’s not a child.” She finds herself hissing, even as Alistair lowers his gaze in resignation. “Nor is he a pawn for you to push around your board as you see fit. Do not speak to him as though you have any right to dictate his life.”

                “Lenora –” Alistair tries, but Eamon silences him again.

                “With all due respect, Warden, I believe I’m more experienced in these matters.” He’s surprised at her audacity, and Darian at least has the sense to keep quiet. He can see Lenora simmer at his words. ‘With all due respect’, his ass. “You’ve exhibited tremendous luck thus far, but it will take more than steel to win this war.” Luck, he says! Luck! As if they’ve survived this long solely on chance.

                “I’d urge you to remember who you’re speaking to.” Lenora warns, and there’s something heavy in her even tone. This is not her negotiation voice, nor even her stubborn leader voice. This is new, laced with anger and built on a pride. “I’m well versed in Ferelden politics.”

                “While I don’t doubt your teachings,” Eamon rebukes, and Darian can feel the fight brewing. “It’s my understanding that Grey Wardens lose their titles when they join the Order.”

                The room is silent, if only for moment, and it doesn’t take a politician to recognize that Eamon is pressing on a wound simply for the reaction. Lenora still has her sword, Darian notes. Perhaps the Arl should have weighed his options a little more carefully.

                “They’re not to interfere with political affairs, either.” Lenora says, much too calmly for Darian’s liking. “Yet you ask Alistair to claim a birthright you _just_ stated he lost upon becoming a Warden. You ask us to break the Order’s laws, then spit them back at me when you decide they suit you – when they help you maintain your authority.” She takes a step, just one step towards the Arl, and she suddenly seems taller than the moment before. This, Darian realizes with stunning clarity, is her noblewoman voice.

                This is her Teyrna voice.

                “If you insist we incite civil war, then I must insist that you remember that I am the daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland, rightful heir to Highever, and your social superior, since you’ve made it clear you’re not interested in speaking as peers.”

                Eamon has blanched, looking as though he’s about ready to fall back into a coma. Darian imagines it’s been a while since he’s been so thoroughly embarrassed.

                “You want to play politics, Eamon?” And _oh, that_ is a challenge. Even Darian knows better than to insult a lord so directly in his own home. Lenora is mad, and she is not holding back. “I can play politics.”

                Eamon stills, clearly affronted, and even Teagan looks unsure of how to respond. Darian comprehends with a start that – if they are breaking the Warden’s status laws – the woman beside him is technically the second most powerful woman in Ferelden. And he really has absolutely no idea what to do with that information.

                “As it stands,” Lenora concludes. “I have an army to build and only a few months to build it. We will have to finish this discussion another time. Once you’ve recovered, perhaps.”

                _And who’s responsible for that miraculously recovery, again?_

Just like that, the warrior excuses herself. Alistair looks stunned, to say the least, and doesn’t speak a word as he follows her through the dining hall doors. Darian figures it best not to linger, and does the same. When he reaches the table, Lenora is already discussing their next course of action with Ariah.

                “The dwarves aren’t going anywhere.” She’s saying. “Where would the Dalish be now? Could we find them?”

                “If not now, then very soon.” Ariah shrugs, schooling her features to near indifference. It must be hard for her, Darian thinks. They’re not her clan, he knows, but –

                “How much time before they disappear again?”

                “Few weeks, at most.”

                “Then we head east.” Lenora decides. “We leave in the morning.” He’s surprised she wants to spend the night in the home of the man she just verbally emasculated, but he won’t turn down a real bed. Everyone seems to be of the same mind, gathering their things and herding towards the stairs.

                “I didn’t know we were travelling in the presence of a prince.”

                Darian jumps, spinning to find Zevran behind him, looking intrigued and far more at ease than the mage feels.

                “That would have been a nice bit of information to have when I agreed to kill him, no? No? Ah, I don’t suppose you’d find that funny, would you?”

                “Imagine that.” Darian bites out, ignoring the elf’s sheepish shrug.

                “He doesn’t want the title, I take it? He seems rather ill at ease at the notion of ruling a country.”

                “Can you blame him?”

                “No, no.” Zevran waves him off. “That Eamon, though? Barely awake an hour and already pulling at strings he has no business touching.”

                Darian hums in agreement, then: “You have to stop sneaking up on people.”

                Zevran laughs – a real, genuine laugh – and Darian can almost be convinced to smile in return.

                “I will keep that in mind, my friend.”

* * *

>   _by my will alone is balance sundered_
> 
> _and the world given new life._
> 
> _- **threnodies 5:5**_


	14. Chapter XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair gets a gift. Ariah gets...feelings?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr @khintress and we can cry about stuff together.

> _with passion'd breath does darkness creep._
> 
> _it is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep_
> 
> **_\- threnodies 1:5_ **

* * *

It’s so soft. The voice in her head is almost soothing, lulling her into a deeper sleep than she can ever recall having. The darkness is consuming, shutting out any hint of the world as she slumbers. She forgets how calm her life once was – how void of turmoil or conflict. The voice is like a reprieve from the nightmare she’s been living, tender and careful, but it doesn’t last long.

                More voices, sinister and sharp, add to the sound in her mind. They scrape at her skull and tug at the edges of her awareness, the noise growing louder and louder until the whispers become screams. Her peaceful sleep turns into a nightmare as the darkness twists and writhes, oily blackness swirling in her vision until it takes form. Smoke turns to scales and claws and fangs, and a black song slithers through her like a poison. There, in the recesses of her mind, Lenora sees the archdemon for the hundredth time.

                And it sees her.

                She wakes with cold sweat clinging to her skin in the cool night air. The sun hasn’t risen, but the fire gives off just enough light through the fabric of her tent that she can see her hands tremble. She runs them through her hair, pulling at tangles as she wills her pulse to ease. Fang huffs beside her, his head heavy on her stomach, and she relishes in his proximity. He’s safe and solid, and his eyes are the only things keeping her grounded as she takes long, deep breathes. He’s here – always here – ready to guard her from whatever abject horror her brain can think to torture her with.

                It’s usually Howe. It’s usually blood and bile and terror. It’s usually fire. This? This is an ill omen if she’s ever seen one.

                She wants to close her eyes and pretend it didn’t happen – pretend she didn’t see. She’s not sleeping enough as it is, stealing a few precious hours between watch and agitation. But now she’s awake, startled from any hope she had of rest, and all the things she can’t think of in the light come flooding to her in the dark. Her fingers brush against the pendent resting against her weathered skin, tracing the edge of the chilly metal.

                _Set your eyes on the horizon, Pup_.

                She’s trying. She’s desperate and broken and torn and she’s _trying_. But she still sees her father’s eyes, his smile, and she feels her mother’s touch, and hears Oren’s laugh, and –

                Fergus is out here, somewhere. She’s marching across the country, playing at war – _a Cousland always does their duty first –_ and her brother – _her only family –_ is lost amidst the chaos. He could be wandering the Wilds, just as beaten and broken and bloody as she is. He could be alone and terrified and – and if he’s _home? If he tries to go home?_ He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that his parents, his wife, his _son_ – he doesn’t know they’re all gone. He doesn’t know what Howe did, what he’s still doing.

                He doesn’t know where she is. If she’s alive. If she escaped the fire and the stone, or if she’s ash settled on the crumbled bones of everything they’d loved.

                He could be dead, like all the rest of them.

                She hears Duncan then, for the first time in weeks, and she doesn’t manage to the smother the startled gasp before it escapes her shuddering lips.

                _There is no going back_.

                What does she do, then, when this is over? Where does she go, if by some miracle, she survives the Blight? She’ll look for Fergus, she knows. She’ll search for him until her dying day. But if she finds him?

                She’ll have to go back to Highever, one way or another. She wonders if her home is as scarred as she is. If Howe has bothered to repair the walls or scrub the blood from the stone. If there’s evidence of his treason still carved in the wood where her father’s soldiers – loyal, determined, steadfast – made their last stand. She wonders, bitterly, if she can fix something so broken.

                She wonders if she could ever see that larder again without wanting to die with them.

* * *

                Alistair thumbs the flower, brushing his calloused skin against the velvet petals as the fire dances in front of him. He’s alert, ever aware of the perimeter of their makeshift camp, but watch is a quiet opportunity to think. To ponder, to plan, and to dwell.

                He doesn’t want to be king. He’s never wanted it. He never thought he’d have the choice then. Now?

                He remembers his dream in the Fade – a home, and children, and startling green eyes – and tries not to mourn a life that was never his to have. He was never meant for more than steel and mud, no matter what Eamon says.

                He hears Lenora in the Arl’s hall, clear and resolute and _proud_ , and he doesn’t think he can ever be that. He doesn’t command respect and deference. He can’t demand it. He can’t stand as she had, tall and steady and determined, the largest presence in the room by sheer will. He doesn’t cast a shadow quite like the daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland, rightful heir to Highever.

The only thing he has any right to claim is the poison in his blood and the song in his head. He’s a Grey Warden, trained and tempered, and he doesn’t know how to be any more or less than that. He’ll be lucky if he lives long enough to _be_ anything else.

                He looks back to the rose, sitting carefully in his palm, and wonders if he has any right to even think of her.

                He’s a bastard, and she’s –

                He remembers her wrapping her arms around him outside Flemeth’s hut, her hands in his outside of Redcliffe, and her fingers on his ugly, damaged skin. He remembers ‘I’m the lucky one’ and ‘I’ll find you’ and ‘don’t lose this’. He remembers her lips, just a breath away from his.

                She’s been trying to show him his own worth, he realizes. And she wouldn’t do that if he didn’t at least have the potential to be more than steel and mud, poison and song. She’d likely hit him for thinking any less.

                Perhaps quiet opportunities to think aren’t as beneficial as he thinks.

                Something rustles, furs shifting as someone wakes, and he barely has enough time to tuck the rose back into his bag before Lenora slips from her tent. He conjures the cheese nug in his mind – because _really,_ how does she _know_? – but the void in her eyes has him sobered in seconds.

                “Nightmare?” He inquires softly, because he _knows_ that emptiness. He wonders if she sees the archdemon, or something worse. She only nods, eyes on the fire as she holds herself. “Do you want to talk about it?”

                He could hold her, he thinks.

                She’s quiet, and he takes that as a ‘no’ on the talking front. He can’t blame her, not with Duncan still haunting his resting hours. She picks at the sleeve of her tunic, worrying her lower lip between her teeth as she watches the flames. She looks lost. She looks scared. It reminds him of her expression in the Temple. Panic and desperation and ‘ _I can’t, please, I –’_

He wants to tear Howe’s heart from his chest with his bare hands.

“It’s looking for us.” She says suddenly, and he knows exactly what she means. He sees it too, and he doesn’t know if nightmares of the archdemon are better or worse than the ones of Ostagar.

                Better than the ones where he has to watch her die, certainly.

                “We’re running out of time.” He agrees, and almost hates himself for the irony of it. “Bad habit, that.”

                “Hm?” She hums, and finally, _finally,_ meets his gaze.

                “Running.” He answers quietly. Running from his past, running from his future. Running to the archdemon, to Loghain, to war. Running to their deaths.

                _Not the right time, not the time, never the time_.

                He has no time left. He’s done. He wants to stop running. He looks at his bag, and his scar prickles where she’d touched him, and _he’s done running_.

                “Lenora, I –”

                And she’s gone, a shadow like that day in his tent – disappearing before his very eyes. Fang’s head pokes out from her tent as the flap settles, and Alistair tries not to choke on his words as they cluster in his throat. He hadn’t been that forward, surely? Could she see it in his face – the cloying desperation? The messy feelings, roiling and clawing their way from his chest? Had he scared her away so easily, with just a look?

                But she’s back just as quickly, quicker even, and his head is spinning. She bypasses her previous place by the fire, dropping beside him in a flurry as he tries to catch up.

                “I’ve got something for you.” She says, breathless, and he’s so utterly hopeless. He can’t even bring himself to break eye contact – the light in her eyes is back, the void filled – as she uncurls his fingers and drops something into his palm. It’s cool and metallic against his skin, but she is light and fire and her fingers burn where they brush against him. It takes him a moment – several moments, in fact – but he manages to tear his gaze away to see what sits so heavily in his hand.

                She’s bewildering. Joy and life and lo –

                “But this…” He fumbles, ever ineloquent in the face of her wonder. “It’s my mother’s, but – how – where – _how_?” It’s her amulet, cracked, but whole.

                “I…found it.” She runs a hand through her hair, and if he could _think_ he’d wonder what it would feel like between his own fingers. “Eamon had it, but…” She leans into him, a wondrous weight, and breathes. “It’s yours. You should have it.”

                Her knee against his, shoulder to shoulder, and he doesn’t know how people breathe with this much affection filling their lungs.

                “Did you remember me mentioning it?” He asks, and it might be the dumbest question he’s ever asked, but he has to remind himself to _blink_ , so he’s not at his best. Really not at his best, if her perplexed expression is anything to go by, but he can’t stop. “Wow,” _Blink, there you go._ “I’m used to people not really listening when I go on about things.”

                “Of course I was listening, Alistair. You’re important to me.” And she says it with such conviction, he has no choice but to believe her. She means it, with every fibre – _he’s important_ – and she isn’t just saying it to appease him. His heart is too big for his chest and his ears are ringing and _she’s beautiful, Maker’s breath –_

“Thank you.” And he’s not going to cry. He will not embarrass himself further. But he hopes he can convey just how much this means, just how much he – he –

                _Thank you for the gift. Thank you listening. Thank you for caring._

Because she’s light and life and they’re running out of time, they’re running to their deaths, and he’s falling in love with her anyway. And suddenly, he knows exactly what to say when he gives her that rose. He’s scared and unsure and the world is _dark –_ but she is _light_ and he’s never felt the rapture flooding his veins like it does as he watches her with the reverence she’s due.

                He doesn’t think she could burn brighter, and really, he should know better. He’s expecting her to smile, to bid him goodnight, to return to her tent and pretend like his adoration isn’t spilling from his lips as easily as air. Instead, _oh instead,_ she smiles, winds her arm through his, and rests her head on his shoulder. She settles in, flush against him, and shares with him the most cherished thing she has.

                “No more running.” She whispers. She takes his hand, and she tells him about Highever.

                She tells him about Fergus and Nan and _Oren_ and he savours every word like her trust alone will sustain him. He wipes the tears from her cheeks and presses kisses to her hair and tells her that she is more than what she’s lost.

                He will be more. He has to be.

                They are more.

* * *

                Arryn wakes early. Far earlier than she likes. The morning sun doesn’t even peek through the trees, yet her stomach compels her eyes to creak open with belligerent reluctance. She grumbles quietly to herself, not wanting to wake the others, and does her best to calm her wild hair before slipping out of her tent.

                Alistair sits by the fire, his back to her as he leans against a fallen log, and Arryn stops in her tracks. Dark, messy hair spills over his shoulder, a body curled into his own as he watches the trees. She doesn’t want to alarm them, or interrupt – _Creators, that’s Lenora!_ – but she knows her stomach will give her away if she just keeps _standing here_. So she fakes a yawn, stretches out, and smiles blearily when Alistair turns his head as far as he dares to greet her. Lenora is sleeping, as peacefully as Arryn’s ever seen her, and she can’t blame Alistair for not wanting to wake her.

                “Had some company, did you?” She chuckles, approaching the dying fire as quietly as she can.

                “Until she passed out on me.” Alistair smiles, so unbelievably fond, and Arryn swears her heart swells at the sight. Then, in an instant, Alistair’s fond expression turns to panicked embarrassment. “Not that we were, ah, doing anything – you know, we were just – just talking – about harmless things – _totally innocent things!”_

Arryn can feel the blush burn her cheeks as she sputters in response.

                “No!” She’s quick to refute. “Of course not – no, I didn’t – I didn’t _think,_ I mean, I wasn’t insinuating that you were – you know – _you know_ – _that_!”

                “It’s too early for this shit.” Comes a grumbled complaint as Lenora turns her face further into Alistair’s shoulder. The man practically glows as his ears stain pink, and Arryn’s sure she looks about the same. “Sun isn’t even up and you’ve already made fools of yourselves.”

                “Does that really count if you never _stop_ being a fool?” Alistair teases, and Lenora finally lifts her head to rub the sleep from her eyes.

                “You just keep advancing to new levels of foolery.” She says seriously, and Alistair rolls his eyes as he raises a hand to smooth her hair away from her face. Arryn definitely isn’t watching, and she definitely doesn’t notice that their other hands are entwined with each other. She doesn’t even see when Lenora untangles their fingers – _nope, not looking_ – and beckons for Arryn to sit.

                “Hm?” The elf purses her lips tightly, eyes wide as Lenora cocks a brow.

                “Sit.” She insists, like Arryn should have gotten that. Which she did, she just – well she’s a little distracted. Distracted by Alistair moving to stand, and distracted by Lenora’s hand on his knee, wordlessly asking him to stay. Certainly distracted by the surprised affection on his face, and the warm ease on hers, and _Mythal’s Blessing, could they be any more obvious about it?_

                Her mind doesn’t quiet until Lenora’s fingers are combing through her hair, fixing her braid. They sit in easy silence, listening to the birds sing in the trees. Surprisingly, Arryn’s stomach quiets as well, and she basks in the unexpected comfort as the sun finally filters through the misty trees.

* * *

                “Ariah, my lovely –”

                “No.”

                “Moving on, then.”

                Leliana laughs, soft and unbearably sweet – like _bells,_ what the fuck? – as she and Ariah watch Zevran saunter away to bother someone else. The elf risks a glance, hating the tightness in her chest. They haven’t talked about it – their, ah…kiss – and Ariah has no idea how to broach the subject. Why did she do it? Why then? Is it going to happen again? Because Ariah would like to be prepared next time, all things considered. Not that she _wants_ it to happen again – she barely knows the woman, after all, but –

                Who is she kidding?

                She wants it to happen again, and it’s enraging. She doesn’t even know _when_ she started feeling anything more than meager tolerance for Leliana. They’ve been spending more and more time together, sure, but _feelings_? Shaking limbs and nervous gazes and butterflies in her damn stomach? She didn’t ask for this. She didn’t want this. Yet here it is, and she has no idea what to do with it. She barely knows the woman. She barely knows any of these people.

                She does, though, doesn’t she? She knows Darian can whistle, that Arryn likes to paint, and Leliana loves stories. She knows everyone enjoys Alistair’s cooking more than they pretend to. She knows Lenora makes a point to talk to everyone, one on one, after a particularly hard day.

                She spends every day with these people. Nearly every hour. She knows them. She _does_.

                But Leliana? To know someone that way? Mythal’s mercy, she doesn’t know anything about any of this.

                “I can see you arguing with yourself.” Leliana chuckles, and Ariah remembers just how close the woman is. She’s sitting here in silence like an absolute sod, and the bard is laughing at her.

                _Get it together_.

                “I’m just…conflicted.” She says, as if Leliana hadn’t just pointed that out.

                “Anything I can help with?”

                “Why did you kiss me?” And oh, that’s a bit more blunt than she’d wanted. But Leliana is still smiling, ever amused, and the elf really doesn’t understand how her ineptitude doesn’t faze her. She has no idea what she’s doing and Leliana thinks it’s hilarious.

                “I like you.” She answers simply, like it’s even an answer at all. “I wanted to. Would you prefer I not do it again?” And that’s – well – that’s – _Ariah doesn’t know!_ That’s the problem! She’s up against a blight and the shems’ war and all she wants to do is kiss this pretty girl, but she has no idea how to do all three at once! She has a responsibility, an obligation, a –

                “I…would not. Prefer that.” And she can’t even speak correctly, so that’s not embarrassing at all.

                “Good.” Leliana grins, and Ariah’s heart may as well explode. Honestly, that would be easier than this. “I would very much like to do it again.”

                _H-here? Now?_

She reaches up, eyes a brilliant shade of blue that Ariah’s never actually _seen_ before, and tucks a stray lock of sandy hair behind the elf’s ear. Ariah can feel her face burn, blood rushing to her cheeks as she vaguely registers her need to breathe.

                “Perhaps next time, it won’t be such a surprise.”

                And then she’s gone. Just like that. Off to talk to Wynne like she hadn’t just punched a fist through Ariah’s chest and taken a death hold on her heart. Ariah stares after her, dumbstruck, and wonders how this woman has tripped her up so entirely when she hadn’t even realized her feelings until Haven. She doesn’t even know if she _had_ feelings until Haven. She must have, right? These things don’t just spring out of thin air. Do they?

                She’d ask Lenora, but the woman is just as hopeless as her. Pining after Alistair without actually _doing anything about it_ when the boy is clearly smitten. Chasing each other in circles, with no idea what to do if they caught each other. Idiots, she thinks, the both of them.

                But here she is, watching Leliana from across the camp, and _oh Creators_ , she’s an idiot too, isn’t she? Who let that happen?

* * *

                “So she shows me the scales, right?” Darian is saying, a wicked grin on his face as Alistair unloads their tents from Bodahn’s cart. They’ve been on the road for a week since leaving Redcliffe, and he already misses having a real bed to sleep in.

                “I told you Lenora would sort it out.” The blond man teases.

                “Yes, yes.” Darian waves him away. “The point is she shows me the scales, but there’s something else in her bag. This massive book.”

                “A book.”

                “Yes, Alistair, a huge, scary looking book.”

                “In Arryn’s bag.”

                “ _Yes, Alistair_.”

                “You understand how anti-climactic that sounds.”       

                “I…– okay, but hear me out.”

                Alistair deposits their tents on the flattest ground he can find, and eyes Darian expectantly until the man sighs and obliges in helping him assemble.

                “So this book,” He continues, waving the tarp out. “I remembered Morrigan saying something about a grimoire.” He ignores the look on Alistair’s face. “Her mother’s, very powerful. So I ask Arryn to see it. She gets defensive. Twitchy, you know. Doesn’t want to take it out. Turns out she _stole it_.”

                Alistair cocks a brow, and Darian emphasizes.

                “ _From the First Enchanter_.”

                “Ah,” Alistair hums, thinking back and remember their first encounter with the elven mage. “So that’s what she was doing in his office.”

                “You – she was –” Darian balks, eyes wide. “ _Never mind,_ not the point. The point is, she let me return it to Morrigan!” 

                Alistair stops, frowning, and rounds on Darian.

                “You gave the witch – an _apostate_ – a black book of spells?”

                “It technically belongs to her.” The mage tries.

                “It _technically_ belongs to _Flemeth_. Which should tell you exactly what kind of blood magic you’ve just handed to the woman who wants to skin me alive.”

                “She wouldn’t skin you.”

                “Darian.”

                “Look, she’s not actively ignoring me anymore.” He explains. “Be happy for me.”

                “I –” Alistair sighs, the argument dying in his throat. Darian’s his friend, no matter how strange his attraction to Morrigan is. “I am, Darian.”

                “Thank you.” The man beams. Then, conspiratorially, “I could talk to Lenora for you.”

                Alistair chokes, and Darian laughs, and it takes them another ten minutes to get the damn tent set up.

* * *

                “He’s not very good at hiding it, is he?”

                “Who’s not very good at hiding what?”

                Zevran cocks a brow, watching Arryn as she scrubs furiously at one of her robes. She’s sitting in a pair of breeches – borrowed begrudgingly from Ariah – and a sleeping shirt as she tries valiantly to lift the blood stains from the fabric. With little success, may she add.

                “Your fellow mage.” Zevran elaborates. “The one swooning so ineloquently over the lovely apostate.”

                Arryn lifts her head just long enough to find Darian, sequestered on the far side of camp, once again having a mostly one-sided conversation with Morrigan. She laughs fondly, giving her head a shake before returning to her chore.

                “Darian has never been very good at hiding his feelings.” She smiles. “Unfortunately, he’s chosen the one woman in Ferelden who’s simply blind to them.” Zevran chuckles, a surprisingly pleasant sound. She’s not exactly sure what an assassin’s laugh should sound like, but certainly not…light? Not that she cares.

                “Could you not utilize your extraordinary talent to simply whisk the stain away?” He inquires, and it’s Arryn’s turn to arch a brow.

                “Magic doesn’t work that way.” She says, wondering why this man is sitting here asking her dumb questions instead of helping out around camp. She’s got work to do, even if he does have a nice laugh. “I already tried.”

                “Well,” He claps his hands. “If you can’t magic the blood away, then I’m afraid you’re fighting a losing battle, my friend.”

                “I have one robe left.” She holds a finger up to his nose, a singular digit to signify how desperately she needs new clothes. “The last one got all mangled and set on fire. I can’t just throw this away.”

                “It’s a lost cause.” Zevran insists seriously. “You must let it go.”

                “No, I mustn’t.”

                “No good wearing a bloody robe.” He shrugs. “You’ll just have to do without.”

                “Oh?” Arryn scoffs, rolling her eyes as she shoves the robe back into her bucket of cold river water. “And what would I wear, then? Hmm? Because –” She halts, eyes wide in apparent horror, and Zevran’s smirk is unbearably cocky. The blood rushes to her face, her ears stain red, and her next words are incoherent and sputtered and just an absolute mess, really. “You – oh my – I can’t believe – sweet Creators, you are absolutely – how _dare_ – just – go, _go,_ go away and _stay away_ – where’s my staff – I _cannot_ – _ugh!_ ” She pulls her robe up, both hands clenched in the fabric as she uses it to bat him away. “You’re a bad person! A bad, _bad_ person!”

                “On the contrary,” The elf laughs, both hands raised in self-defence as she shoos him away. “I’ve been told I’m quite an excellent –”

                “ _Go!_ ”

* * *

                The night is darker than most. Lenora wouldn’t even be able to make out the treeline if not for the firelight beside her. Everything is covered in a thick haze, fog settling in the branches and sticking to her skin like a cold blanket. A glance at the sky reveals nothing but clouds – even the moon is hiding tonight.

                The fire flickers warmly, its crackling filling the empty space around her. The air is too still, the woods too silent. The tranquility puts her on edge, more so than usual. Something is lurking out there – she just hopes it _stays_ out there. They’re close to the Brecilian Forest, she knows, but she doesn’t remember it being so foreboding when she was here with Duncan.

                Not that much could have been worse than what she’d left behind.

                Fang huffs at her side, his nose twitching softly in his sleep as he curls closer to her. She drops a hand to rub soothing circles over his back, relishing in the familiarity. Her touch doesn’t seem to disturb whatever dream he’s having, so she leans down to press a kiss between his ears. His fur is soft against her lips before she pulls away, but the sudden sensation in her head is sharp and cold.

                She freezes, still hunched over, and her eyes flicker towards the woods. She tries to locate what she’s sensing, but all she can see is smoke and inky blackness. Her eyes may as well be closed for all the good they’re doing her. She tries to focus on the feeling instead, as she would on the battlefield. If it’s darkspawn, she should at least be able to determine which direction they’re coming from.

                She doesn’t understand – they aren’t silent. Hurlocks are heavy footed and genlocks are downright chatty – she should be able to _hear_ them, if nothing else. But there’s nothing. Just the crackling fire and Fang’s breathing. She doesn’t dare to move too fast as her hand slides to her sword, resting against the stone beside her. She sits up slowly, chancing a look over her shoulder at the rest of the camp, but no one else has stirred.

                Fang grunts again, this time waking himself to lift his head warily. Whatever she’s feeling, she’s no longer alone in feeling it.  She still can’t pinpoint it, however, and a swell of panic builds in her throat. There’s _something_ here – there has to be. Her skin is crawling and her limbs are trembling and _she knows_.

                Something is hunting them.

                And then it’s back, the sensation so overwhelming and encompassing that she may as well be in the midst of the horde. Her head pounds with the proximity, her chest heaving as she grabs her shield and pushes herself to stand. It’s all she can do to yell a warning before it starts.

                She knows where the darkspawn are now, and all the light in the world can’t help them.

* * *

> _in the absence of light, shadows thrive._
> 
> **_\- threnodies 8:21_ **


	15. Chapter XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariah loses, but is not lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm sorry for my absence! And for this chapter. You can yell at me @khintress on tumblr? Yikes.

> _o falon'din_
> 
> _lethanvir - friend of the dead_
> 
> _guide my feet, calm my soul,_
> 
> _lead me to my rest._
> 
> _**-**   **elven prayer for the dead**_

* * *

She can’t move fast enough. Her legs are sluggish, her arms are heavy, and her head is thick with sleep – but she thanks the Creators for muscle memory as her quiver slides over her shoulder and her fingers clutch at her bow. She stumbles from her tent, head pounding, and tries to find the source of the sickly feeling. She can sense them – it feels like they’re _everywhere_ – but she can’t see a damn thing. It’s dark, but that’s never been as issue for her before.

                “Where –!”

                “Everywhere!” Lenora grabs her attention, and Ariah spins in time to watch her thrust her shield into the empty air in front of her. She’s nauseated to see the metal ricochet, and the illusion dissipates to reveal claws and teeth and long, pointed ears.

                “Shrieks!” Alistair yells from her left. Ariah doesn’t know what a shriek is, and she’d have been very happy to go the rest of her life without seeing the twisted monstrosity now hissing at her. It swipes out at Lenora, a large – a _very, very large_ – blade catching against her shield as everyone shouts around them. ‘What’s and ‘where’s and ‘how’s and the ungodly shrieking in between it all. Ariah gives her head a firm shake, and reminds herself that _standing here_ is going to make it that much easier for the invisible darkspawn to hit her.

                “I can’t hit them if I can’t see them!” She calls, trying to sense where the creatures are lurking. What good is the taint, otherwise? “I can’t just swing a sword around and hope I hit something!”

                “Then get out of the way!” Comes Lenora’s breathless response, and Ariah doesn’t need to be told twice. She makes a beeline for the closest tree and hauls herself up to the highest branch she can manage. She can make out the barest shimmers of movement from up here, highlighted by the firelight and the moon. They’re quick, unnaturally so – and so entrenched in the camp that she isn’t confident she wouldn’t hit a friend should she fire into their midst.

                “Where do you want me?” Arryn calls, staff clutched desperately in her hands as she wavers near her tent.

                “Back!” Lenora yells back. “Get to Morrigan, focus on barriers, and keep your mouth shut!”

                “But –!”

                “Their blood is poison, Arryn!”

                Ariah watches with stuttering terror as Lenora’s tunic splits down the back, a thin line of blood pooling underneath as the woman arches forward. “ _Now_!” She orders, and Arryn stumbles back with a yelp as a barrier flickers to life around the warrior. Ariah takes the opportunity to fire, catching the cloaked shriek before it can do any more damage. Lenora doesn’t bother to stop, just forges on with a barrier in lieu of armor.

                Everyone is in such a frenzy, it’s almost a relief to find a lone creature hovering at the edge of the camp. She’s not sure what it’s doing, but it’s a viable target, and she sets up the shot. It takes mere seconds – seconds to steady her bow, set the arrow, pull back, and – stop. She stops. She’s frozen and tense and _ready to shoot_ but she _can’t._

It’s looking at her. _Directly at her_.

                Its eyes are dark and haunting, but not empty. Not mindless. Not like the others.

                She knows those eyes.

                She can’t really say what happens next. Everything passes in such a thick haze; are all the shrieks dead? Is anyone else hurt? She doesn’t even remember climbing out of the tree. All she knows is crossing the clearing like the world is on fire. All she sees are its eyes – _his eyes_ – watching her with such immense pain, she’s sure she can’t breathe. Her stomach is in her chest and her heart is in her throat and her tongue is thick with regret and love and despair.

                “You…” It utters, and her world shatters at her feet. His voice is thick and savage, laced with fear, as if his suspicions have been actualized now that she stands in front of him. “…lethallan…” He rasps. “…don’t look at me!” He throws his hands up, stumbling back as if to protect himself – as if she could ever hurt him. She’s mute, deaf and dumb and empty. She’s a shell, standing and staring like she’s good for nothing else. How did he get here? Where did he go? If they’d let her stay – if they’d let her search for him – ! She could have helped!

                She could have _helped_.

                “I am…sick… _sick_ …”

                “ _Tamlen_.” The name writhes on her tongue, tasting of dread and lacing her throat as it tumbles from her lips. Her fingers tighten around her bow, anxious and tense, but she makes no move to raise it. She doesn’t think she could, even if she wanted to.

                “Don’t look at me!” He repeats, looking like he wants nothing more than to run. He wants to, she can see it, but he won’t look away from her.

                “What…what happened to you?” She grinds out, any sense she had left snuffed out by a desperate desire to know. It clings to her skin and coats her lips and it will kill her, she knows, but she’ll die without it, too. “We thought you died – I couldn’t find you, I tried – I _swear, Tamlen, I tried,_ you have to know –”

                “The song!” He cries suddenly, and Ariah startles but doesn’t move. She’s not running from him. Not again. _Not ever_. “The song…in my head.” He grabs at his head, nails scraping against his sunken skull as Ariah fights the tears welling in her eyes. He’s sick, so sick – pale and frail and so different from the boy she left. The boy she loved. “It – it calls to me. He sings to me! I can’t stop it!”

                She doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know what she _can_ do. The man she grew up with, trained with, fought with – her best friend hears the archdemon singing the taint’s song, and she doesn’t know what to _do_.

                “Don’t want…don’t want to _hurt you,_ lethallan.”

                “Tamlen, I –”

                “ _Stop me_.”

                She’s choking. Her lungs are filled with poison and her ribs are made of lead and he can’t really be asking this of her. She can’t. _She can’t_. He’s not hers to lose, _but he is._ He’s hers and she’s his and _he can’t ask her to do this._

                “Don’t –” She breathes, but the word is laced with tears and she heaves at the sound. “Don’t ask me to do that. I can’t – you know I can’t!”

                “ _Please…_ stop me…” He’s begging and she’s crying and she throws her bow to the ground. She won’t hurt him. _Not again_. Her fingers are slick with sweat and her hands are trembling, and she wants so desperately to reach out to him. To touch and hold and help him. But this? This isn’t helping, this is giving up. She didn’t give up - he never gave up! If he had, they wouldn’t even be in this mess. If he hadn’t insisted on finding that stupid ruin, if he hadn’t been so damned stubborn –!

                “I wish we’d never found that cave.” She whispers, watching the sickness twist over his skin like a fog. “I wish you’d never touched that fucking mirror. I wish so many things, Tamlen. Don’t ask me to do this. I won’t kill you. I can’t, not again.”

                “I’m…so s-sorry…Ari…” Her name on his tongue is like a knife sliding between her ribs. His eyes darken and the blade twists, and she’s sure she’d bleed black, if she’d bleed at all. “Never wanted… _this_.”

                “Tamlen, no – please!”

                And he’s fast. So much faster than he’d ever been. He’s on her before she has time to think, and then he’s on the ground. He’s on the ground, and she’s on her knees, and nearly two decades of history lies between them in a rift too great to traverse.

                It isn’t natural, how easily his skin broke. Like it was already dead, all too willing to part in the name of an end. In the name of peace. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. She had accepted his death – it followed her, weighed on her, haunted her, but she’d accepted it. She had blamed herself – how could she not – but this? This is a wound she’d thought was healing. It isn’t mercy. It’s blood, black and thick and _sick,_ but it’s his. _It’s his_ , and now she’s covered in it.

                She had dropped her bow. Never the arrow.

* * *

                The earth is loose in the morning mist. It doesn’t take much to dislodge it. _That’s good,_ she thinks. _I don’t have much to give_. She didn’t expect her hands to ache – not like this, not after years of working with a bow – but they do. They ache and pulse and perhaps she’s gripping the spade a little too tightly, but she has to get it done. She has to finish before they leave, before they – she can’t – she can’t _leave him here_.

                She barely notices when her arms begin to tremble, or when her knees shake under her own weight. It not just her though, is it? It’s the weight of every decision she’s made, every burden she’s carried. It’s Tamlen, lifeless and impossibly heavy on her shoulders, even as he lays beneath a sheet a few feet away. Her cuts get choppy, uneven, unmeasured, but she doesn’t see it. She doesn’t see the grave become a messy hole in the ground, instead of a resting place.

                What is she doing? _Sweet Creators,_ what has she done?

                Her friend, her _best_ friend – how could she? She _killed_ him and now she digs his grave like she has any right to lay him to rest! Like she has any right to give him peace! The clan will hate her. Tamlen would hate her, if he’d been whole – if he’d been…

_She_ hates herself.

                Then, even through the haze and hysteria, she feels hands wrap around her own. Warm and solid, steady and sure. Sharp green eyes meet hers with heartbreaking empathy, and a traitorous sob escapes her constricted throat. She wants to fall, to lie here in the dirt and let them bury her along with him. She wants to curl up and wait for the world to take her too. But Lenora’s hands are careful, unwrapping her fingers from the spade and easing the tension from her knuckles. She swipes a thumb beneath her eye, wiping away the dirt – or maybe a tear – and Ariah takes a shuddering breath. If Lenora notices the cuts or blisters, she makes no mention of it.

                So Ariah steps back, willing her legs to support her as she pulls herself from the hole and the spade bites back into the earth. She watches the dirt pile up, watches the hole become a little neater – more appropriate for a grave.

                _A grave_ , she cries silently. _We’re digging a grave. Tamlen’s grave. What have I done?_

Lenora doesn’t speak. She just works, covered in dirt and sweat and the barest hints of sunlight. She’s so silent that Ariah isn’t sure the woman is even breathing. How is she not speaking? She can’t be silent, not about this. Where are her words of encouragement or comfort or reassurance? Where are her questions and concerns and –?

                And then she knows.

                “You didn’t get to bury them.” It’s not a question, and she doesn’t receive an answer. She doesn’t need one. They don’t talk – not about this. They’re alike in that respect, at least. Perhaps they’re more alike than Ariah realized.

                And if the tears flow a little faster, or the spade digs a little deeper – well, they don’t talk about that either.

                She doesn’t know how long she stands there, frozen and distant. The silence doesn’t break until Lenora lifts herself out of the hole, digging the spade into the pile of upheaved dirt and uselessly brushing at the dirt stains on her breeches. The fruit of their labour is wide and deep and _Creators, she has to put him in there?_ She has to cover him with dirt and hide him away like a terrible mistake? How can she do that? How could she do any of this? _What has she done?_

What would Marethari say if she could see this?

                “I need a sapling.” She says sharply, suddenly, her lips quivering and her heart in her throat. Lenora only nods, and Ariah turns from the grave and stalks into the woods. She doesn’t bother with an explanation. Lenora wouldn’t ask for one, anyway.

                The clearing is small, but bright and green. A tree shouldn’t have any trouble growing here. Life from death; that’s what they say, isn’t it? That doesn’t make it any better.

                When she emerges from the trees, a small sapling carefully cradled in her hands, she nearly chokes. Gone is the sheet, replaced instead by simple embroidered linen wrapped carefully around him. He’s settled beside the grave – _his_ grave – so someone has moved him, someone has –

                “We weren’t sure of the ritual.” Darian says, and she looks up to see him and Alistair, wringing their hands and watching her. She sets the sapling down, scrunching her eyes closed and willing herself to breathe before straightening up and nodding. She slides deftly into the hole – _the grave, it’s a grave_ – and ignores the shivers racking her spine. Her eyes burn and her lungs heave, but she motions the men forward. They lower him down to her – slowly, carefully, agonizingly – and she’s mindful of his head as she places him gently in the grave she had no business digging. She adjusts the linen, and takes a moment.

                She’d lost him once. Hadn’t that been enough?

                Leliana helps her out, and if she holds her hand a little longer than necessary – well, Ariah won’t complain. It’s grounding, steady and strong, and she’s very much in danger of floating off. She’s feels heavier than she thought possible, yet so close to simply slipping from existence. It would be so easy to drift away in this moment. To fade away and let the world save itself.

                Then Arryn is there, placing a staff in her hand, and Ariah doesn’t care about the tears that spill freely down her cheeks. How could she have forgotten? She’s almost sent him away with no aid. She’s already _killed him_ , and now – how could she –?

                “An oak staff.” Arryn whispers, her quiets words only meant for Ariah’s ears. “To help him along the path. And a cedar branch, to ward off the ravens of Fear and Deceit.” Ariah releases Leliana’s hand – though the woman doesn’t go far – and clutches the staves to her chest.

                “Thank you.” She breathes, hoping the words can faithfully convey their weight.

                “Ir abelas,” The mage says sorrowfully, and Ariah blinks in quiet surprise. She didn’t know Arryn spoke the ancient tongue. “Mala suledin nadas.” Arryn wipes a tear from her own cheek, and Ariah’s entire being screams with homesickness. She kneels beside the grave, and yearns for home. She sets the staves at Tamlen’s side, and prays for mercy.

                She knows she doesn’t deserve it. She sinks her hands into the pile of earth and knows there will be no rest for her, in the end.

                “Ar lasa mala revas.” She hums, sprinkling the handful of dirt over the linen. “Dareth shiral, ma vhenan. May the Dread Wolf never hear your steps.”

                Another handful, then another pair of hands. Then another, and another, until their knees ache and their palms crack with dirt. The spade forgotten, they kneel in the earth until the sapling is finally planted. It will grow, and Tamlen will rest, she knows – she _knows,_ but –

                By Falon’Din, what has she done?

* * *

                “Shouldn’t we talk to her?” Arryn has been silent until now, content to hug Fang as he lies beside her, but her thoughts are too tumultuous to keep inside. Ariah is hurting – there must be something they can do.

                “No.” Lenora shakes her head, her torn shirt in her hands as she stitches. She tries the same loop three times before her trembling hands betray her and she lets the garment fall to her lap.

                “But, she –”

                “Just buried her best friend.” Lenora sighs, quiet and sad and so far off, even as she sits in her bedroll not five feet from Arryn. “Let her sit with him. Just for a while.” Fang cries softly, and extends a leg to rest his paw against Lenora’s foot. Arryn pretends she doesn’t see the tear she’s so quick to wipe away, and the women lapse back into silence.  

                There’s been too much pain. Too much loss, and too much expectation to stand in the face of it. It’s all too much – everything is just…

                “Will she be okay?” Arryn murmurs, because if Ariah breaks, what hope do the rest of them have?

                “I hope so.” And that’s just it, isn’t it? They don’t know. None of them do. They’re all just children playing at war.

                More of them are going to die, aren’t they? She didn’t know Tamlen, but Ariah – well, Ariah buried a little bit of herself with him, didn’t she? She won’t be the same. How can she be? Arryn knows what it’s like to be left behind.

                “Hey,” They both turn to the front of the tent as Alistair leans in. “Just making the rounds.”

                Lenora nods, silent, and waves him in. He hesitates, lingering a moment too long, before taking a definitive step inside. He drops a hand to Arryn’s shoulder as he nears, and the elf looks up with the sincerest smile she can muster. She’s the first to admit that it isn’t much.

                “You didn’t get any blood on you?” He asks, and Arryn shakes her head.

                “No.” She assures. “No, I’m alright.”

                “And him?” He looks down to Fang, and the hound cranes his head back to eye the man somberly.

                “He’s fine.” Lenora answers, patting Fang’s paw. “He knows not to bite them. Thank you.”

                “Smart enough to talk.” Arryn quotes, and Fang returns his head to her lap with a huff.

                “And you?” Alistair looks to Lenora, and her chest expands with a heavy breath. She stares down at her shirt uselessly, still waiting to be mended. Arryn knows that Alistair is looking at it too, but she suspects they aren’t seeing the same thing.

                “I’m in no danger from a little darkspawn blo–”

                “Lenora.” It’s quiet and pleading and Arryn watches any attempt at levity drain from the woman’s face.

                “It stings, but that’s it. Shallow. Wynne says it won’t even scar.” That’s a small blessing, Arryn muses. They all have enough scars. She sees Jowan, and knows that some scars are bigger than others.

                Then, because they’re all thinking it: “How is she?”

                “Breathing.” Alistair offers. There isn’t much else to say. “Leliana is with her now.”

                “Should we start packing?”

                “I’d give it a while longer.”

                They all know that all the time in the world won’t do them any good.

* * *

                She’s crying. She’s got tracks running down her cheeks and salt pooling in the corner of her mouth and she can _barely breathe_ but she doesn’t care. Her hands are blistered and her knees ache and whatever pain she’s feeling is so well deserved she can’t be bothered to wish it weren’t. She should have stopped him, she should have found him, she should have saved him.

                Should, should, should. Now his blood is drying underneath her fingernails, and even his name on her tongue feels like a transgression. She left him to die; consigned him to his fate and let Duncan spirit her away in the name of survival. How long had he wandered, sick and sorry and scared? How long did he fight it? How long had he suffered? It’s been months since she left the clan, months since they both got sick and months since she was the only one to be saved.

                _Saved,_ she thinks bitterly. If this is salvation, she doesn’t want it.

                She wants peace. She wants her clan. She wants to go back in time and forget any of this ever –

                Leliana shifts beside her, and the thought dies as quickly as it was formed. She doesn’t want to forget, not everything, at least. What she wants is to be selfish. To pick and choose and cherish the good parts. She wants to bury the Blight, and the taint, and that _fucking mirror,_ and live the rest of her life for herself.

                Not for the world. Not for Ferelden. Not even for her clan. She wants something for herself.

                “Do you want me to go?”

                “ _No._ ” She grabs Leliana’s hand before she even realizes she’s done it. The bard is surprised – they both are – but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she laces their fingers, and lets Ariah settle against her. She takes some of that weight, and Ariah breathes a little easier. “No.”

                She wants to be selfish.

* * *

                The forest grows thicker with each passing hour. The path gets thinner and the canopy thickens until it blocks what little sunlight they can see through the clouds. Lenora can’t tell if they’re even following a path at all, anymore. She trusts Ariah to guide them safely through, but that doesn’t mean she’s content not knowing where she is. She thinks of Duncan, of finding Ariah in the underbrush, and wonders how the forest can be so familiar and so foreign at the same time.

                She wrings her hands as they walk, scraping the dirt out from under her fingernails as she listens to the woods. She remembers Ariah’s rage – her desperation when Duncan recruited her. She’d been forced to abandon her friend, and now she’s been forced to bury him. She wants to help, to ask, to comfort – but she doesn’t know how. She doesn’t know what to say, or how to act. She hopes Ariah has gained a sense of closure, at the very least.

                She thinks of Fergus, and has to remind herself that he’s alive. _He’s alive, and you’ll find him when this is all over._

“I’d like to go with you.” She glances to Ariah, matching her step for step, and wonders if she’s heard correctly.

                “Pardon?” She tries, because the woman is recovering from a powerful loss, and she knows – she _knows –_ that Ariah isn’t trying to comfort her. Not now. That’s not her weight to carry, not her burden to bear. She _will not_ cause her friend any more anguish, and she won’t let her take a pain that isn’t hers to endure.

                “To Highever, when you go.” Ariah clarifies, and Lenora’s breath catches in her throat. “I’d like to go with you, if you’ll have me.”

                Lenora chokes, tears clinging to her lashes as she stares at this marvel of a woman. How can she do that? Break her apart with just a few words? Lenora doesn’t speak; she’s not sure she can. But she nods, pursing her lips and trying to reign in her tyrannous emotions. It’s been a long, draining, difficult day, but Ariah is still carrying her corner of the world. She’s still strong, resolute, steady.

                She’s still here.

                Then an arrow, neat and pristine, lodges itself in the tree next to her head. The pair freeze, a sharp terror flashing in Ariah’s eyes before it fades to recognition. Her gaze turns from fear to unease to determination, and Lenora faintly registers Darian’s panicked shriek from behind them.

                “What was that?” He demands, already ducking behind the nearest trunk. “Is someone shooting at us?!”

                “We’ve found them.” Ariah says, but Lenora isn’t sure anyone is meant to hear. It’s almost a curse. It’s almost a prayer. “The Dalish.”

* * *

> _tenderly land enfolds you in slumber,_
> 
> _softening the rolling thunder._
> 
> _dagger now sheathed, bow no longer tense._
> 
> _during this, your final hour, only silence._
> 
> **_\- uthenera_ **


	16. Chapter XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arryn investigates. Ariah talks to a tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's been less than a month, and here's a new chapter! As always, you can find me on tumblr @khintress - enjoy!

> _what hath man's sin wrought?_
> 
> **_\- unknown_ **

* * *

The Dalish elves – to no one’s surprise – are mistrustful, to say the least. But they have their problems that need resolving, and the Wardens have their wars that need fighting, and Lenora – in her way – has come to a compromise with the elven Keeper.

                That doesn’t mean Darian has to like it.

                He has nothing against the nomadic people, but werewolves? Well, he has something a problem with werewolves. Claws and fangs and _curses_ are not on the list of his favourite things. He knows they need help against the Blight, but do they really have to hunt down a demon wolf to get it?

                It’s a small comfort, at least, that Lenora has insisted they set out in the morning. It’s too dark in the woods, and he finds himself aching for the stars. The trees are lovely, but the sky? Maker’s breath, he didn’t realize how much he would miss the sky. Ever present – always there, even if you can’t see it. It’s constant and engulfing and ethereal in a way he can’t describe. He catches glimpses of it through the leaves and wonders if there is a freer thing than the sky.

                He’s not sure what kind of mushroom Ariah just gave him, but he’s thinking he probably shouldn’t have another. Especially since she’s insisting this part of the forest is haunted – the Veil thin and the spirits restless. He knows it’s true. He can feel the shifting energies, an uneasy tension like a splinter just under his skin that howls in pain with every wrong move. Whatever it is lurking beyond those trees, he’s sure it’s far worse than Witherfang. He’s about two seconds from slipping into paranoia as it is – he doesn’t need loopy fungi helping him along.

                “Nervous?”

                He nearly jumps from his skin as Arryn’s hair brushes over his shoulder, like tiny spiders crawling across his vision. Her laugh is tight and sharp, her ears pink from the satisfaction of catching him off-guard.

                “Andraste’s ass, Arryn!” He scolds, brushing imaginary arachnids from his robes as she settles beside him. “If I wasn’t before, I certainly am now!”

                “Oh, come on.” She teases. “There are plenty of warriors in camp to defend us. No werewolf’s gonna get you, I promise.”

                “And the demons that could rip through the Veil at any given moment?”

                “Maybe the two will kill each other and, for once, our work will be done for us.”

                “Or, _or –_ and consider this – the demons _possess_ the werewolves and we’re all mauled to death before sunrise.”

                “When did you get so pessimistic?” Arryn huffs, swatting at Darian’s hand as he fiddles with his robes. “We’ll be fine; we survived Redcliffe, didn’t we?”

                “You didn’t arrive in Redcliffe until _after_ we killed all the corpses.” He reminds her. “Re-killed? Whatever.”

                “Did you fight a dragon, Darian?”

                “No,” He sighs. “But –”

                “Shh.” She plasters her hand over his face, shaking her head as he rolls his eyes under her fingers.

                “Careful, Arryn.” Lenora warns from across the fire. The grin upon her lips looks a tad forced, but the mirthful lilt in her voice is real enough. “You don’t know where that’s been.” Ariah makes a noise of agreement beside her, and Darian wonders if he imagines the smile on her lips.

                Arryn, however, sticks her tongue out with a ‘blegh’ and quickly wipes her hand on her robes. Darian has the good sense to look offended, pouting as Lenora waves Arryn over. Off to conspire against him, surely. He tilts his head in curiosity when the mage jumps up and bounds around the fire, settling herself in front of Lenora. Her legs crossed and hands clasped in her lap, Arryn hums contentedly as the human woman gathers her golden hair in her hands.

                “So,” The warrior starts, shaking Darian from his distant observation. “Zathrian says the infected elves don’t have much time left. Wynne and Arryn are going to stay behind and see what they can do for them. Ease their pain, maybe. I need two teams of three combing the forest. The rest will stay and defend the camp.”

                “Defend the camp, or defend Wynne and Arryn?” Darian inquires, cocking an eyebrow as Lenora twists Arryn’s hair into a tight braid.

                “The Keeper is hiding something.” She concedes, looking to Ariah as they share a sideways glance. “But right now, I’m more focused on keeping the elves alive than digging the skeletons out of his closet.”

                “So,” He drawls. “You’re asking if I’d rather fight werewolves in camp, or out in the woods.”

                “I won’t make you come.” She ties Arryn’s hair off with a strip of cloth, and meets Darian’s eyes across the fire. “But we could certainly use another mage.”

                _Another?_ That means –

                “Morrigan’s going with you.”

                Lenora smiles, sweetly and all too knowingly. Ariah breaks her silence with an amused snort.

                “She is.”

_Well that settles that._

* * *

                When Lenora had said that they’d be splitting into two teams, Ariah had known better than to hope she’d throw both archers on one of them. She’d assumed she get Lenora, though. Or Morrigan, even. Instead, she’s saddled with two lovesick boys. Creators forbid Alistair and Morrigan be forced to work with each other.

                “Quit frowning, the both of you.” Ariah chastises, her bow gripped steadily as the boys brood silently behind her. “There are monsters in these woods.” She repeats. “And I don’t want to explain to Lenora that you’re both dead because you were too busy sulking to watch for oncoming werewolves.”

                “I am not sulking.” Alistair sulks.

                “I’ll sulk if I want to.” Darian insists.

                “You’re both bloody children.” Ariah sighs, and wonders if Lenora secretly hates her.  

* * *

                “So, how fare our friends, hm?”

                “Don’t make me hit you with my staff.” Arryn warns, eyeing the other elf warily. “Again.”

                “I sense that I make you uncomfortable.” Zevran muses, like it’s a curious tidbit of information. “Is it because I pay you unwanted attention, or because I was hired to kill two of your friends? Because I can stop one of those things. The other?” He cocks a sharp brow, entirely too charming for his own good. “A little out of my reach, as it were. Changing the past, and such.”

                “Four.” Arryn corrects, and shakes her head as if to clear it as she moves on to her next patient.

                “Pardon?” And Zevran follows. As he does.

                “You were hired to kill four of my friends.” She says it as calmly as she can, but the words leave a vile taste in her mouth. Just the thought of them is poison. “Don’t try to downplay the ridiculous extent of the murderous vendetta against us.”

                “Ah.” Zevran hums, and she resists the urge to look back at him. “While I wouldn’t put it past me, I was truly only contracted to be rid of Alistair and Lenora. They are the wardens, yes? Why would Loghain want anyone else dead? Aside from his raving psychosis, I suppose.”

                “He…you – you only…?” She does turn then. She turns and meets his gaze and studies it as well as she can for any sign of deceit. She’s no expert at social cues, she knows, but if he isn’t lying – if there are really only two contracts… “He must not know.”

                “Know what?”

                “He must think they died.” Thank the Creators for Darian’s magic. For Ariah’s ears. For common blood and prejudiced eyes.

                “I’m lost.” Zevran states, and a grin spreads so wide across Arryn’s lips, she’s sure her cheeks will split.

                “Don’t you get it?” She nearly laughs. “And here I thought assassins were supposed to be smart.”

                “Rather uncalled for.”

                “This is good. _This is very good_.”

                “Well,” Zevran frowns, unsure, and shrugs. “You’re welcome, then? Although, I have noticed you did not answer my original question.”

                “Oh, I don’t plan on it.” And she probably wouldn’t, even if she knew the answer.

                “Ah, then I shall assume you do not mind my attentions.”

                “Sweet Creators.”

* * *

                Lenora hates these woods. Wholly, and truly.

                Wildlife, she can handle. Darkspawn, she can handle. Even werewolves were fine, if a little disconcerting, until they opened their damn mouths and started talking. She knows Zathrian is hiding something, but he’d told them the wolves were mindless beasts. Surely he wouldn’t expect them to believe such a thing after a _conversation_ with one. She’d see his falsities for herself, and if the werewolves can speak, then she’d have them explain themselves. What she gets, instead, is a warning and a name.

                Swiftrunner.

                Swiftrunner isn’t one for negotiations, however, and the wolves are gone as quickly as they arrived. They leave suspicion in their wake, and another piece to a story Lenora doesn’t know where to start with. They’re smart enough to have names, and seem to have a grievance with Zathrian, personally, and if that isn’t bad enough –

                “No! That is not a question! And if it be an answer, it be an answer to a question I’ve not asked! Have you no sense for the rules?”

                “Have I no se–” Lenora breathes. Slow, and steady, and careful, and plasters on the best diplomatic face she can muster. Aggravation swirls beneath her skin, and Morrigan has long since given up on speaking with the mad hermit squatting in the clearing. Even Leliana’s patience is wearing thin – and she’s been pursuing _Ariah_.

                “Come now!” The old man insists gruffly, his eyes appearing to wander in different directions as he stares at them. “Will you play by the rules, or not?”

                “Very well.” Lenora clears her throat, wringing her fingers together to keep her hands busy. _Or to keep from strangling this –_ “Would you like to ask me a question?”

                “May I?” He grins foolishly. “Oh yes, I think I might! Now…what shall be first? Oh yes! _What_ is your _name_?”

                “Lenora.” She answers. For the third time. Nan always used to tell her that she has her father’s temper; she’s working very hard to spare this man from it.

                “Aha!” He shouts, and he’s really not helping. “So you claim! They sent you, didn’t they? But you’re too tricky, and you’re trying to fool me! Well, I’m onto you! Just so you know.”

                Morrigan’s groan is loud and long and entirely too similar to the sound playing repeatedly in Lenora’s head at this particular moment.

                “But it is your turn to ask now. Ask! Ask away! I dare you!”

                “Do you know where the werewolves hide?” She supplies, and hopes her words don’t ignite more spiralling nonsense. Unfortunately, the man’s lips twist in suspicion, and Leliana grasps her shoulder in support as they brace themselves for the oncoming storm.

                “Werewolves?” He repeats dramatically. “Why do you want to know? Did _they_ send you? Did _they_ tell you to ask?”

                “That’s a lot of questions.” Lenora cocks a brow, earning a hushed chuckle from Leliana. “You’d better have some answers.”

                “Ah! Damnation!” The hermit shrieks, crossing his arms. “Caught by my own rules! Oh, oh, oh! Did they _tell_ you to pretend to be an innocent stranger, with a head full of fluff and nothing?”

                And there goes any leverage they thought they may have earned. Apparently, tricking the trickster only sends the old bugger for a loop.

                “I’m trickier than I look!” He points at them, blinking rapidly when one eye wanders a little too far to the left. “Ha, ha! I survive still, and the trees leave me be! Ha, ha! I’ve won! They will never find me! Never!”

                “ _We_ found you.” Lenora reminds him, then shakes her head at her own absurdity in continuing any semblance of conversation.

                “So you did!” He acknowledges. “But I’m watching you! If they sent you, I’ll know!”

                “So help me, Maker.”

* * *

                “Andaran antish’an, Grey Wardens.” Mithra greets Ariah as they meet at the entrance of the forest. “Our scouts saw you approach.”

                “We found him not far from here.” Ariah offers, and waves for Alistair and Darian to bring the man forward as he hangs between them. “He claims the werewolves attacked him.”

                “Deygan.” Mithra gasps, and her comrades move to take the wounded elf from them. “Ma serannas.” She nods to Ariah, an almost-smile playing at her lips. Then, to her fellows. “Come lethallin, to the Keeper. And quickly. If we are lucky, we may still save him.” They depart with an appreciative nod, and Darian sighs with an exaggerated flourish.

                “Back where we started.” He shakes his head. “Excellent.”

                “At least we killed the bear.” Alistair offers.

                “I wish there hadn’t been a bear to kill.” The mage retorts.

                “There are always bears.” Ariah turns, leading them back into the forest.

                “It’s always a bear.” Alistair agrees, somewhat wistfully.

                “Ariah!”

                The trio turn to find Arryn, flushed and out of breath, barrelling towards them. Her braid flails behind her and her legs nearly tangle in her robes as she skids to a stop before them.

                “There’s – something – you should – know.” She manages between pants, resting her arms on her bent knees as she gulps in air. Ariah’s going to take the mages for regular runs, she decides, because the redness in Arryn’s face is something of a concern.

                “Is this about Fang getting sick? Because cheese has been going missing and I’ve already spoken to Lenora about it, and –”

                “Damn it, Darian, no!” She waves him off, and the man huffs in offense. “Zathrian is old.” She wipes her hands over her face and manages to stand up straight. “Like, really old.”

                “You know, I got that from the lack of hair and general crankiness.” Darian nods, and Arryn scowls back.

                “ _Centuries_ old.” She elaborates, and Ariah nearly chokes. “I’ve been talking with some of the clan, and they said that he’s been their Keeper for literally _hundreds_ of years. I also helped a hunter woo his lady love, it was very sweet. Not the point. Also I may have promised the craftsman that you’d bring back ironwood. Also not the point.”

                “That’s certainly…interesting.” Ariah tries, but she can feel her brows knitting together. There are tales of the ancient elves and their immortality, but…

                “He really does need that ironwood, though.”

                “I can handle ironwood.” Ariah assures, fingers reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose as a headache creeps up. “I’m a little wary of claims of immortality, however.” The word makes Arryn’s nose scrunch up, and somehow, Ariah’s frown deepens. “Why don’t you look convinced?”

                “Can’t you feel it?” The mage asks, a sadness muddying her eyes. “In Zathrian, _and_ the forest. Like something’s missing, or misaligned. Like a broken bone that hasn’t set right.”

                Darian hums in agreement, and Ariah remembers their musings from the night before.

                “The veil is too thin.” Darian adds. “Something is disturbing the spirits. Do we want to take bets on what?”

                “Looks like Zathrian’s keeping a bigger secret than we thought.” Alistair whistles, unease settling in the corner of his mouth.

                “There’s clearly more going on than he’s told us.” Ariah agrees. “But we can’t jump to conclusions. We’ll keep searching the forest, and _you,_ ” She points to Arryn, who jumps and squeaks at the sudden attention. “Don’t ask any more questions. Don’t poke around. Don’t provoke anyone. We don’t need the Dalish thinking we don’t trust them – we need them to trust _us_. We _need_ them. Understand?”

                “Yes, _mother_.” Arryn huffs, deflated but accepting. There’s so much to ask, so much to learn! But if keeping her mouth shut means keeping her friends safe, well – she’ll have to manage. “Oh! Before you go – I have more news! About Loghain.”

                “Oh?” Alistair piques up, reminding Ariah of Fang at the prospect of a snack.

                “I was talking to Zevran – don’t start.” She points at Darian, who snaps his mouth shut. “And he said he was only hired to kill _you_ and Lenora.” She moves her finger to Alistair, and whispers conspiratorially. “Not Ariah. Not Darian. Just you two.”

                “So, what? Loghain thinks we’re dead?” Darian nearly pouts. “That jerk.”

                “Or,” Ariah shrugs. “He doesn’t know we’re Wardens.”

                “Well _that_ would be a fortunate advantage.” The mage muses, brow furrowing.

                “What advantage?” Ariah snorts. “Sensing darkspawn isn’t exactly a blessing when you’re fighting regular people, you know.”

                “If we aren’t on Loghain’s wanted listed, then we can walk around the capital without hiding our faces.” He says, slowly, a giddy grin tugging at his lips. “We’re invisible. Even more than we were before.”

                He’s right, she realizes. If they’re shielded from Loghain’s plot against the Wardens, then they can go where Lenora and Alistair can’t. She’s thankful, beyond measure, for her simple background. Thankful that her father wasn’t a king, or a teyrn. For the first time in a long time, Ariah thanks the Creators for her ears.

                They’ll win this war yet.

* * *

                “What happened here?” Darian asks, eyes alight as he stares up at what is undoubtedly a possessed _tree_. “To make the forest like this, I mean.”

                “A great war, perhaps. I cannot tell. I was not here when it befell.” He’s grinning like a child on his nameday, but by the Maker – a talking tree! And it rhymes, no less! He doesn’t understand how Ariah can just sit there and watch, looking entirely too unimpressed. _It rhymes_. “But many deaths here, all the same, and with the deaths – the spirits came. The spirits entered corpse and tree, and most went mad, as thou canst see.”

                He knew it. _He knew it_. He didn’t even know spirits could possess anything other than mages.

                “That would explain the restlessness of this place.” He nods, wishing Arryn could be here to see the spirited flora. “Everything feels off-balance.”

                “The forest had a spirit of its own, from back when its first seeds were sown.” The Grand Oak continues with its practised prose, its branches waving methodically. “Perhaps she died of grief that day, or perhaps she simply went away. Or perhaps the weres are the ones to blame, for the day she left is the day they came.”

                “The weres?” Ariah interjects, _finally_ interested in the _talking tree._ “The werewolves didn’t come until the spirits did? They’re a symptom of the imbalance, not the cause – is that what you mean?”

                “I speak as clearly as I see. Plainer than this, I cannot be.”

                “ _Ugh_.” The elf throws her hands up, stalking away only to turn around again. She comes back, stops, turns, and begins what Darian considers to be an anxious pace. He imagines she isn’t too keen on returning to Lenora with only the news of an – albeit _amazing_ – rhyming oak, but is it worth digging a trench over?

                “I am not meeting up with Lenora only to say ‘ _oh yes, we met a talking tree and learned absolutely nothing’_. We didn’t split up just so we could be pointedly _useless_.”

                Well alright, then.

                “Do…” Alistair cocks a brow at Ariah as she paces, before turning to the Grand Oak again. “Do you know where we can find the werewolves?” He asks, because someone has to.

                “In the center of the forest, the weres do dwell – or so go the tales my fellows tell.” The tree answers, one of its branches sweeping towards the eastern woods. “But they cannot be followed there. The forest doth protect the weres.”

                “It protects them?” Darian frowns, and Ariah groans across the clearing. “Why?”

                “Perhaps weres use magic to command the trees? All I know is they move as they please.”

                “Is there any other way to reach the center of the forest?” Ariah demands, stomping back to them with a scowl. “There must be some way.”

                “Perform the boon as I ask, and I shall reward thee for the task.”

                “Boon?” Darian brightens, eyes wide. “We can do boons. We’re _good_ at boons.”

                “I have but one desire.” The tree croons, suddenly sullen. “To solve a matter most dire. As I slept one early morn, a thief did come and steal an acorn.”

                “And you want it back, I take it?” Ariah sighs, wondering if any acorn will do, or if the batty tree has a specific one in mind. Why hadn’t they just gone to the eastern forest? Lenora surely wasn’t having such an infuriatingly irritating time.

                “All I have is my being, my seed. Without it, I am alone indeed. I cannot go and seek it out, yet I shall die if left without.”

                “Yes, alright, very well.” She waves, running a hand over her hair as she reminds herself to breathe. “We’ll get your _seed_ back.” Darian’s smile is begging to meet her fist, and Alistair looks more amused than she likes, but at least they have cause to _leave._

“Go to the east to find this man. I shall await, do what thou can.”

* * *

                “Lenora! Thank the Creators. You’re coming with me.”

                “Wha – Ariah – wait a minute, we have –”

                “We can’t reach the werewolves as it is. The forest protects them.”

                “We know. We came across a barrier. We came to tell you.”

                “I have a solution.” Ariah insists. “We need an acorn.”

                Lenora stops, brow cocked, and asks – very carefully: “Is this an elven thing?”

                “Is this a –?” Ariah blinks. “No! This is not an – just listen, alright? Someone stole a stupid acorn, and if we return it, the dumb talking tree will give us a way through the barrier.”

                “You…you met a talking tree.” It’s not a question. Lenora’s not really even talking to her, to be honest. Of all the strange…a talking tree? A tree that talks? The _tree…talks_.

                “ _Elven thing._ ” Ariah grumbles. “Unbelievable.”

                “The tree actually _talked_?” Leliana beams, and Darian returns her smile in kind.

                “It rhymed!” He enthuses.

                “We need to find the acorn.” Ariah reiterates, sharp agitation tugging at the corners of her mouth.

                “I’m still stuck on the talking tree.” Lenora confesses, looking uncharacteristically perplexed. “Just –”

                “There is an acorn thief in the eastern forest, Lenora, and we need to find him! For justice.” Ariah frowns, and Lenora agrees that the words sound a little off. “Or…something.” She shrugs.

                “In the eastern –?” Leliana starts, and Lenora’s brows nearly disappear into her hairline.

                “No.” She shakes her head. “No, please. I can’t go back there, Ariah. I can’t.”

                “You know the acorn thief?”

                “Yes. _Yes_ , I know your thief and there is _nothing_ you can do to get me to talk to that man again. He is the physical manifestation of lyrium-induced _hysteria_.”

                “You want to talk about hysteria?” Ariah scoffs. “I tried to get answers from a _rhyming tree_.”

                “Was it a poet tree?”

                “ _No,_ Leliana – not you too.” The elf sighs. Is nothing sacred? Is no one safe? She’s heard the same pun three times and she didn’t like it the _first_ time.

                “Okay, stop.” Lenora waves her hands in front of her face, closing her eyes to summon what little patience she has remaining. “This tree can get us through the barrier?”

                Ariah nods, her lips pressed tightly shut. Lenora nods, though it physically pains her to do so.

                “We’ll go talk to the hermit.” She concedes, and Morrigan makes a retching noise from somewhere behind them. “We get the acorn, and we find a way to get to the werewolves. Do we know anything else about the forest? Anything that can help?”

                “We know that there used to be a spirit who cared for it, a long time ago.” Darian offers. “When it died, or left, or _whatever_ , the werewolves appeared.” He glances to Alistair, but the other man is too distracted to bother confirming his information.

                “And we know that Zathrian is older than Loghain’s grudge against the Orlesians, courtesy of Arryn.” Ariah adds.

                “Just how old?” Leliana asks, a delicate red eyebrow arching upwards.

                “Centuries.”

                “Maker’s breath –”

                “The werewolves know Zathrian by name.” Lenora muses, trying to fit information together like torn parchment. “They want the elves to suffer, and he has something to do with it. You said Arryn told you that?”

                “I told her to stop digging around, just in case.” Ariah affirms.

                “And you trusted her to actually stop?” Lenora asks, with justifiable skepticism.

                “Well –”

* * *

                “Look, I know I’m not Dalish, I get that, but I’d like to learn!”

                “You will learn nothing by harassing our hunters.”

                “I was not _harassing_ them. I was _learning_.”

                “And what did you learn?”

                “Don’t interrupt hunters while they’ve got weapons in their hands. It was a very enlightening experience.”

                “And what about the craftsmen?”

                “How was I supposed to know it would catch fire that quickly? He shouldn’t have let me back there to begin with. I feel like we share that blame, at the very least.”

                “And the halla?”

                “I will accept absolutely no responsibility for that. That one was inevitable. If anything, I helped.”

                “And what of Tamrel? Was that inevitable as well?”

                “Tamrel…?”

                “ _The vallaslin_.”

                “Oh! _Oh_ …yeah…that one was my bad.”

* * *

                “In hindsight, I should have had Darian mute her, or something.”

                ‘’She’s going to get into trouble if she keeps prodding. We’re not exactly welcome here.”

                “Well what do you suggest? I promised the damn tree I’d get its acorn back.”

                “I don’t trust Zathrian,” Lenora sighs, concern etched into the lines of her face. “Not by a longshot. And if he suspects that _we_ suspect _him_ – which he will – then we have to protect our people first.”

                “Sten is there, with Fang and the assassin.” Alistair reminds her, finally offering something other than a distant look. “And it’s not like Wynne and Arryn are defenseless. They can set people on fire, if you’ll recall.”

                “I know.” Lenora nods. “You’re right, of course you’re right.” Going on the defensive would have tipped the elves off, regardless. She knows better. “I just…”

                “Worry?” Alistair offers cheekily, and his lopsided grin makes her chuckle.

                “Yes.” She breathes. “Sometimes I forget that I can’t – ah,” _Protect everyone._ “Never mind. Let’s find ourselves a thief, yeah?”

                “After you.” Alistair waves dramatically, ignoring Morrigan’s abhorrent ‘ _ugh_ ’. And if he’s a little more relaxed now, a little more at ease – well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

* * *

                “You’re back? Of course you are! _They_ want more – always more!”

                “You should probably…stand over there.” Lenora looks to Ariah, gesturing away from the hermit as he eyed them wildly. The elf only purses her lips and cocks an unimpressed brow. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The other woman shrugs.

                “What do they want now, hm? Why have they sent you?”

                “Do you have the Grand Oak’s acorn?”

                “Ahhh…suddenly it all becomes clear.” The man narrows his eyes suspiciously, points his finger at Lenora in accusation, and _yells_. “You here, that _talking tree_ there, it all makes sense now!”

                “Do you have the damn seed, or not?” Ariah demands, her fingers itching for her bowstring. First the tree, now the hermit – she’d spent a good portion of her life in these woods and she never experienced anything quite like the madness she’s faced with now.

                “As a matter of fact, yes.” The man puffs up. “I do have that tree’s acorn. I _stole_ it and it was _easy_. Silly tree should have locked it up tighter!”

                “Well can we –”

                “If you want it, you’ll have to trade me for it. And nothing from that silly tree. No leaves or branches or anything.”

                “Alright, then –”

                “But that’s all I have to say about that! An answer for an answer, there you go!”

                “There has to be someone else we can talk to.” Darian sighs, not really expecting an answer.

                “There’s a man just around the bend.” Leliana answers, surprising him. “Aneirin, I believe his name is? His mind is securely fastened, if you’re so inclined.”

                “Aneirin?” Alistair interjects, earning his fair share of odd glances. “Just…?”

                “Around this corner.” Lenora supplies, nodding to the far side of the hermit’s clearing.

                “I’ll be right back.” He promises, clasping her shoulder as he walks by. Then he’s off, and she blinks after him before shaking herself from her daze.

                “All…right…?” _How does he know Aneirin?_ “Weird.”

                “Do you have any knowledge of the arcane arts?!” The hermit shouts, startling the group as Darian lets out a yelp.

                “No.” Lenora bites out, muscles tense as her temper shortens. “No, I don’t.”

                “Oh.” The man muses. “Well, that’s disappointing. But wait!” There’s a collective groan, but he is undeterred. “What if you’re lying? Aha! You thought to scamper away without suspicion, did you? Well I’m on to you!”

                “Yes, yes, quite perceptive of you.” Lenora waves him off, and casts a wary glance at Ariah. She’s vibrating, likely from a deep-seated rage burning to escape, but she hasn’t lashed out yet. Good sign, as far as she’s concerned. “Now it’s my turn. Can I trade you for the acorn?”

                “O-ho! And what do you have to trade, hm?” The hermit presses, narrowing one eye and leaning in to better deliver his glare. She blinks, uncomfortable, before glancing around at her immediate surroundings.

                “How about…?”

                “Oh!” Darian announces. “I know!” He flips open the satchel at his hip and pulls out a small, thin, leather-bound book. He passes it to Lenora for appraisal, who smiles and presents it to the hermit.

                “How about a book?” She offers.

                “Eh? What sort of book?”

                “A book on elven history!” Darian supplies quickly, nerves on edge and smile just a touch too wide.

                “Elven history, you say?” The hermit considers, his eye wandering as he thinks. “Hmm…that might made for good reading by the moonlight. Or it’ll be better than using leaves. Give me that!” He reaches into his robes, tossing something haphazardly at Darian, who slams his eyes shut and scrambles to snatch the object out of the air. When he reopens his eyes, his fingers uncurl to reveal the acorn sitting curiously in his palm.

                “There! Now that’s done. What else have you got on your agenda, hm?” The madman continues, leafing through the book with impish enthusiasm.

                “Nothing.” Lenora answers shortly. “We’re leaving. Now.” She turns, grabs Ariah by the shoulders, and physically leads the elf away. “Alistair! Let’s go!”

                They listen for the distinct sound of his armor rattling as he rushes to catch up, but they don’t wait for the hermit to voice his displeasure. They make it around the bend, safely out of earshot, before Ariah rounds on Darian.

                “Darian,” She begins darkly, as the mage lets out a quiet ‘eep’ in response. “Please tell me you did not just hand a chronicling history of my people over to a man who intends to _wipe himself_ with it.”

                “Ah,” Darian chuckles nervously, wringing his fingers. “It was empty, actually. Completely blank.” Ariah narrows her eyes, and he rushes to elaborate. “I had intended to use it as a journal of sorts, but then it got covered in – well, that’s not important. The point is, that man was very happy to have a book of nothing.”

                Ariah pauses, considers, and manages a deep breath as she accepts that he’s telling her the truth. She doesn’t entirely believe him capable of lying in the first place, to be honest.

                “Ah,” Leliana smiles, and Ariah lets a little more tension fall away. “Ignorance truly is bliss, isn’t it?”

* * *

                The werewolves’ lair is a marvel of architecture that inspires awe, caution, and no small amount of unease. It’s dark and eerie and smells, unsurprisingly, like the ‘wet dog’ everyone seems to complain about. Luckily, the werewolves have been their only obstacles thus far – much to Lenora’s relief. No undead or giant spiders – not yet, anyway.

                That doesn’t mean they’re having an easy time of it, though. Werewolves don’t wield bows. They bite and claw and scrape – they get _close_ , and Ariah can’t do much with that. She can dodge a blow and throw a punch, but she’s far more comfortable on the sidelines – preferably out of sight and with arrows to spare. That’s not the case here.

                Even now, the archer curses the beasts for their voracity, trying to clear her eyes of dust and blood as another lunges for her. Metal meets claw, ringing out against the aged stone as Alistair’s shield catches the creature’s attack. Ariah takes the opportunity to retreat to the far side of the room, and reminds herself to thank Alistair later. She backs herself against the wall, and hopes it’s enough. She _will not_ be flanked by unnaturally large dogs – she’s endured enough today, thank you.

                She catches sight of Lenora, a werewolf’s jaws preparing to close in on her sword arm, and ends the beast’s assault with a thick arrow. The warrior shouts a hasty thanks and thrusts her shield out, interrupting another’s run for Morrigan with a sharp bash to the head. It staggers, dazed, and Ariah takes aim to down the creature before it recovers. She cringes as it hits the ground, and reminds herself that they’re here for a reason. She finds she’s reluctant to kill the werewolves, even as they attack. There’s so much they don’t know – about Zathrian, and Witherfang, and whatever history they share. The white wolf hasn’t left them much choice, however, and if the wolves don’t want to talk, the Wardens can’t make them.

                Movement in her peripheral has her firing at a trio of wolves, matted and mangled, retreating back the way they’d come. She misses by a hair, rushing to nock another arrow, and bites back a few choice words before settling on, “Runners!”

                Lenora pivots, but the wolves are beyond her reach. “Leliana!” She shouts, but the bard fares no better.

                “I don’t have a clear shot!” Leliana’s reply is rushed, and she wastes no time in departing from her perch to follow the beasts.

                “No, don’t –!” Lenora warns, but the archer already off with no intention of stopping. “Alistair!” She tries instead, and the warrior is quick to respond. “Back her up!” He cuts through the wolf in front of him and sets off in a sprint, trailing Leliana up the stairs. Darian shouts something unintelligible, and a barrier erupts around the pair before they disappear from sight. Ariah feels her own ward sizzle to life – courtesy of Morrigan, no doubt – but her heart still stutters in her chest.

                She fires two more arrows into her nearest targets, and makes a run for the other side of the room. She makes it halfway before a body collides with hers, sending them both tumbling to the ground in a flurry of claws.

                “Fuck!” She seethes, wincing at the pressure as her barrier absorbs the blow. The force is enough to dispel the magic, and she knows better than to hope for another barrier before the next attack lands. All she can see is fur and fangs, snapping at the air between them as she braces herself against the wolf’s weight. She can’t reach her arrows, and she can’t hold the beast off with one hand, but a sword cuts through its neck before its teeth can find her.

                “What are you doing?” Lenora demands, relinquishing her sword to grab the front of Ariah’s cuirass. She hauls her up, and Ariah might be impressed if she weren’t absolutely terrified. Who runs off by themselves in an ancient ruin full of monsters? Who _chases_ the monsters?

                “ _Leliana_.” She breathes, trying to see the top of the stairs. She feels Lenora release her, withdrawing her sword from the werewolf’s corpse before rounding on the archer again.

                “ _Focus,_ Ariah!” Lenora slams her shield into an oncoming attack, pulling the archer behind the sheet of metal as it absorbs the force of the wolf’s swing. It stumbles back, momentum lost, and Ariah nocks an arrow before it can rear up for another attempt. Lenora sidesteps, and the elf releases the arrow into their attacker’s eye before trying to explain the ever-rising panic flooding her senses.

                It’s familiar. It’s fresh.

                “What if it’s –!”

                The wolves are fast, she knows. Quick and agile, hitting fast and hard. They’re melee fighters – thriving in close quarters. Their bodies are their weapons, and they need nothing else. They remind Ariah of the shrieks; overwhelming and unending.

                They aren’t darkspawn, though. She doesn’t share their blood, or their curse. She can’t sense them. _She can’t sense them_. She doesn’t even hear them. Not until it’s too late.  

                She gets no warning, no indication, besides the slightest shudder in the air. She hears the rumbling as the illusion fades, and the shadow-wolf is upon them before she can reach for another arrow. Ariah remembers seeing Tamlen – she remembers just… _appearing_ , in front of him. She doesn’t remember climbing down the tree, or crossing camp. She just remembers _him_.

                This isn’t like that.

                This isn’t fast. She doesn’t see it in bits and pieces; in scattered images pieced together in hindsight. It happens in slow motion, seconds drawn into eons as she watches helplessly. She can’t see their attacker – it’s behind her – it’s _flanking her._ But she can see Lenora. She can see the fear, the panic, the determination. She watches Lenora’s left arm – her shield arm – extend past her, sliding around Ariah’s left side to cover her back. She winces as the warrior’s elbow digs into her shoulder blade, forcing her back. She feels her knees hit the ground, sees her bow skitter across the stone. She jolts as the impact vibrates through her palms, up her arms. She lands on her hands and knees, breathless as their places are swapped, and she knows Lenora is taking the force of an attack meant for her.

                She knows Lenora is no stranger to that. Taking someone else’s hit. She _knows_. The woman’s made of metal and might, steel and strength. She wears her power as much as she wields it – she’s built to block and absorb and endure. Ariah’s seen it a hundred times. She’s seen her shudder under a blow, struggle and tremble and waver, but never break.

                She realizes – with a start and a desperate gasp – that she thought she’d never see it. Not until she hears the crunch of metal beneath impossibly powerful jaws. Not until she watches a sword clatter against the stone to join her bow. Not until Lenora lands beside her, the beast’s claws buried in her armor like it means nothing. Her shield comes up to meet the werewolf’s skull, but the claws dig deeper. Metal meets bone, and armor tears as surely as flesh. Ariah watches blood spill from Lenora’s lips, watches her chest heave and her arms shake. She feels metal under her hand, feels the hilt of a sword as she wraps her fingers around it, feels the weight of it as she forces herself to stand.

                Lenora is pinned, trapped by the thing that’s supposed to protect her. Her steel isn’t enough. Her strength is waning. She’s shuddering and struggling and trembling.

                She’s breaking, and Ariah is moving in slow motion.

* * *

> _from the fade i crafted you,_
> 
> _and to the fade you shall return_
> 
> _each night in dreams_
> 
> _that you may always remember me._
> 
> **_\- threnodies 5:7_ **


End file.
